Harry Potter and the Bloody Summer
by Ash9
Summary: Post-OOTP COMPLETE Danger creeps around Privet Drive as Voldemort abandons his one-attempt-per-year plan. He's going in for the kill.
1. The Last Straw

_Disclaimer: J.K. Rowling and her wonderful creation, including its characters, places, and things belong to her and her alone. Being inspired, and being bereft of book six, I do nothing but emulate and elaborate. This is not intended to steal from her work, or for any monetary benefit._

**_1- The Last Straw_**

            The silence was thick and heavy in Little Whinging, and about as comfortable as a wool blanket on this intolerably hot Summer day. 

            As if by written agreement, the inhabitants of Privet Drive did nothing to break the monotony of another drought-laden season. The cadence of sprinklers was again stilled; not a soul stirred outside; even the humming of bees was hushed. Only one sound was brazen enough to break the stillness of the day, and that rather strange sound came from inside number four. 

            The sound did not come from Vernon Dursley, master of the house, though his round head quivered and his enormous mustache bristled under his nose in sheer indignation as the noise continued. 

            "That boy must be stopped!" His voice was a harsh whisper, not even loud enough to be heard up the stairs. But the sound paused.

            "Oh thank heaven," murmured his companion, a thin lady placed carefully in the recliner across the room. 

            She lifted her dainty teacup and saucer higher before she drank, wanting no spills on the very nice, very new carpet laid as the most recent testament to her frugality and her love of cleanliness. White carpet. Not plush, of course, lest it pick up dirt down deep where she couldn't clean. No, this carpet was almost as hard and featureless as its backside. But it was pure, unadulterated white, and it showed off the pale perfection of the white walls so well. 

            Petunia Dursley congratulated herself with a sip of the cup's contents, closing her eyes in bliss at the moment of silence. Then the horrid scratching sound began again and she jerked her cup away, clashing it noisily against the saucer. 

            Tea came raining down on her creased linen pantsuit and splashed the chair. She froze in horror. A spot had fallen on the carpet!

            "It's that boy again!" Vernon was blasting out.

            "He's ruined my carpet," she wailed.

            "This is the LAST STRAW! BOY!" Vernon stood and shouted the last word with all the force his barrel-chested body could generate. "GET SOME SHOES ON AND GET DOWN HERE NOW!"

            Petunia was sobbing hysterically, already on hands and knees inspecting the spot. "Ruined!" Then she remembered the cleanser. She took off at an undignified run for the cupboard and cast the door open. Inside was an orderly collection of cleaners, with the carpet cleanser displayed prominently in the middle—a special cleaner just for white, featureless carpet. 

            Petunia snatched it, and a cloth out of the rag collection. She spared only a quick venomous thought that the brat should still be living _in_ the cupboard where he wouldn't be _allowed_ to make noises like that, disturbing body and soul, before she headed off to attack the blemished carpet. On hands and knees again, she sniffed and doused the spot that had grown to the size of a quarter. 

            "I'll be just a minute, Uncle." The hateful voice drifted down, its coldness as evident as its carelessness.

            After freezing with unbelief at the words, Petunia huffed out an indignant breath and attacked the spot with renewed vigor. Horrible brat! And what a terrible, horrible summer it was turning out to be! Ever since the boy had come home, everything had to be done to make him happy. She was expected to do his work for him and clean for him when just feeding him three times a day was hard enough. No one could take care of that monster. No one could make him happy! They lived every day in fear that he would contact _those people_ and complain. Then they would descend upon the house and—and—

            She halted her ministrations as she realized that Vernon was standing at the bottom of the stairs, listening to that scratching noise, looking like a bulldog about to attack.

            "Oh, Vernon, be careful," she hissed. "What are you doing?" Her face flushed with an unnatural heat. He was flirting with disaster, tempting the judgment of the horrible wizards who watched over the boy like demi-gods. They would know if the boy was angered, if he was mistreated—

            "Someone has to teach him a lesson! He sits up there, ignoring me—IGNORING ME! Treating me as if I was unworthy of his attention. I'll teach him who's unworthy! It's about time things went back to THE WAY THEY WERE!" 

            He pounded up the stairs as if they deserved a good trouncing simply for being so upward, and Petunia's heart skipped a beat. 

            He was going to put things right! Maybe this would end the tension that had gripped the house since the boy had returned. Maybe they could get Dudley to eat normally again—poor Diddyums had lost too much weight now. And maybe that _brat_ would learn some respect. She thought the word with as much venom as she could, and watched Vernon's beefy bulk mount the top stairs with satisfaction. He would put the boy right, and personally . . . she hoped he dared use the force that might be necessary.

            Vernon approached the door with blustering bravado and started yelling before he had even unlatched the lock. "I SAID—"

            He threw the door open with smashing glory.

            "GET YOUR SHOES ON AND COME DOWNSTAIRS _NOW!"_

            The words ricocheted about the room satisfactorily, but caused little effect. The boy did not even move. But the quill was silent for the moment, Vernon noticed with a quick pump of pride. The brat was sitting at his cousin Dudley's cast-off desk, looking entirely unwell as usual. Vernon immediately yelled again, to keep from noticing.

            "IS THERE A BLOODY REASON WHY YOU'RE IGNORING ME? BECAUSE I CAN THINK OF A FEW BLOODY REASONS WHY YOU _SHOULDN'T_ BE—INCLUDING THE FACT THAT I'LL GIVE YOU A GOOD THRASHING IF YOU DON'T START SHOWING SOME RESPECT, BOY!"

            Unfortunately, Vernon had a habit of moving when he talked, and now he could see more of the boy's face as those unnatural eyes flickered up. Vernon took a step back at the feverish gleam in those bright green eyes, almost feral with their expression of chipped, black hate. The intensity contrasted so oddly with the dark circles underneath his eyes and the pale skin all around. 

            Even more unsettling, Vernon saw again the way his hair had taken to growing long in uneven patches that far overshot his shirt collar in thick, jet-black streaks. Of course, the shoulders that hunched over to a dull point on either side, and the collarbone sticking out even more prominently than years before from under his t-shirt managed to make his clothing look oversized and ridiculous as usual. The gangly boy could certainly no longer be called short, but the growth look forced upon him, as unnatural as the rest of his appearance. Vernon took this in disapprovingly, and reasserted himself with a step to the side and more blustering.

            "DID YOU HEAR ME, BOY? _ANSWER ME!" _

            The boy simply continued to stare. He stayed perfectly still, and his voice, when he finally spoke to the large man breathing very heavily near his doorway, was perfectly steady, though rough from disuse. 

            "I'm working on a very difficult essay. Was there a reason you needed me downstairs? It would be better if I could continue my train of—"

            "YES, THERE'S A _BLOODY_ REASON—I NEEDED YOU! WHEN I CALL YOU, YOU HAD BETTER COME, BOY, OR I WILL MAKE YOU WISH YOU'D NEVER BEEN _BORN!"_

            The boy took a deep breath and let it out. "Bit late for that, isn't it?" 

            He dipped the long quill pen in the ink bottle and started that scratching noise again. Vernon was completely flummoxed. He had no idea how to deal with someone in this state. The boy used to scurry about in fear when he was younger, and even though he had slowed his pace in recent years, yelling usually managed to at least get him to his feet. Vernon fired a few more words out, but to his immense frustration, the volume had lowered a tad. 

            "Get your SHOES ON, come downstairs NOW and stop that INFERNAL SCRATCHING!"

            Harry Potter, almost-sixteen-year-old hero of the wizarding world, for that was who the boy was, slowly and carefully put down the offending quill, then sat back in his chair. His face was impassive, as though they had been chatting lighting about the weather.  "Why?" 

            Vernon started sputtering, his face vacillating between magenta and a more bluish tone as he chose his words, obviously needing to put everything through the filter of _is-this-something-that-will-make-the-boy-lose-it-and-write-his-wizarding-freak-friends-or-not_ before letting loose. 

            "Your hair," Vernon spat out, "is a disgrace and I won't tolerate it any longer."

            "My_ hair_, as you so eloquently put it, has always been a disgrace and will probably be that way until I die or until I become a Potions Professor and it lies greasily against my scalp like a dead mink pelt. There's no point in getting exercised over it." 

            Harry turned back to his paper. He could feel Vernon's beady eyes boring into his neck. The man only managed to get three words out:

            "Hair. Cut. NOW."

            "And there's no point in dragging this out," Harry went on easily, picking up his quill again. "I can't safely go anywhere to get it done and even if I did get it done, no one will see it. No one will know the difference."

            "We'll know the difference, boy—the only family you've got left in the world. And you may be a FREAK, but I won't have you going around looking like one."

            Harry gripped his quill tighter, wishing it was a wand. Now . . . he was getting angry. Not good. Deep breath. 

            "I'm not _allowed_ to go outside of this house. I don't like it anymore than you do—"

            "I know what this is about," Vernon said with a sudden greedy look in his eyes, stepping forward, his mustache quivering with delight. "You're trying to look like that godfather of yours, aren't you? The murdering wizard who got himself done in?" 

            The room turned dark in Harry's eyes. A pallid circle of light surrounded Vernon's face, highlighting the malice there. 

            "Want long hair like him, eh? Want to be a killer, too? I'll bet they taught you—"

            Vernon stopped, suddenly choking on a wand pressed deep into his fleshy throat. 

            Harry was there, shaking, one hand grabbing the man's rounded shoulder for leverage, the other pressing the wand deeper at his neck, all with deadly, calm efficiency. Words bubbled out from a well of hatred so deep that it seemed unfathomable. 

            "Don't—talk—about—him—ever—again. Leave me alone, go back downstairs and yes—" he barked out a laugh, "pray that I _do_ want to be a killer if you value your life at all."

            Vernon's eyes bugged out of his head as he struggled to get away. Harry was surprised to realize that his grip on the man's shoulder was so tight, and relented. The slow flush of rage faded from his cheeks, but he kept dark eyes fastened on Vernon, who had backed away, hands at his neck, obviously fighting equal parts fear and violent rage. He looked like he might attack.

            Harry considered this with sudden emotional distance. He wondered if his uncle did attack, should he protect himself? He didn't actually feel like it. He felt more like Life owed him some payback after losing Sirius to the other side because of Harry's idiocy in falling hook, line and sinker for the Dark Lord's schemes. 

            However, Vernon disappointed him, settling for mere words again. 

            "We'll give you a week to get more used to the idea, boy. But I will not have you in my house looking like that. Not even those FREAK friends of yours could approve." He turned to pass back through the door. 

            Harry's teeth were set on edge. But he called out softly, catching Vernon's beady eyes just before the door closed. 

            "Uncle Vernon, if you take me outside of this house, we will at some point be attacked by Death Eaters. Of course, my friends will try to help, but you won't be their highest priority. And the best you could hope for is a quick death. The worst would be unthinkable. I simply don't believe that a haircut is worth it. Do you?" The silence was heavy. "And before you even try it—no, I forbid Aunt Petunia from coming anywhere near me with those shears of hers." 

            The door slammed shut and the sound of a lock clicking home heralded Harry's imprisonment once again.

            No dinner for him tonight. 

            The walls began to close in and Harry cursed Umbridge for the thousandth time—sending the dementors last Summer and taking away his freedom. Dumbledore had heard enough of the other side's inner workings to know that they knew exactly where Harry was now. He had forbidden Harry to leave the house, much as he had forbidden Sirius to leave Grimmauld Place last year. 

            _Sirius._

            Breathing forcibly through the sudden pain in his chest, Harry turned to his paper, picked up the quill and buried himself in thoughts of smaller things. 

             Sometime later, he noticed that the unrolled parchment on the desk was nearing the four-foot mark, covered in neat, looped handwriting, but the last paragraph had the distinction of being a bit bunched-up and more spidery than the top lettering. Harry noticed it with a sigh. 

            He'd hoped to make this assignment so perfect that even his ever-irate-and-nitpicking Potions professor, Severus Snape, couldn't find fault with it. Of course, that was a nearly impossible task, which is precisely why Harry had tackled it with such gusto. A four-foot essay on medicinal ethics for patients who were in a coma-like state took a narrow-mindedness and focus to detail that was consuming. 

            Harry had done little else but prepare and write ever since he'd gotten over his shock at being allowed to continue on in Potions to the Newt level, and Hermione Granger, his best friend of the female variety, had sent him the necessary books. Now, there were only a few more inches to go. Hermione would be agape. Harry wrote slowly and steadily, managing to make it take a lot longer than it should have, blinking away his fatigue.

******

**_Coming Soon-  
Chapter 2: Letters Have a Way of Doing That . . ._**


	2. Letters have a way of doing that

_Disclaimer: J.K. Rowling and her wonderful creation, including its characters, places, and things belong to her and her alone. Being inspired, and being bereft of book six, I do nothing but emulate and elaborate. This is not intended to steal from her work, or for any monetary benefit._

**_Ch 2- Letters have a way of doing that . . ._**

            Harry slept fitfully that night as always, his dreams haunted by innumerable fears, horrible memories and a consuming feeling of guilt. He woke to the pale light of dawn creeping across the ceiling as though it was unsure of whether it would be welcome or not. Harry cared neither one way nor the other. He lay on his back, mummified in sheets from his tossing and turning during the night, refusing to reach for his glasses. It had become a game with him, to see how long he could tolerate the blurriness. Maybe it was just the one small part of his life he could control right now. But he didn't need to see to think the thoughts he was sure to be thinking, anyway.

            As always, first thing in the morning, Harry felt quite sure that he should be dead, and would be, if only there were not so many blasted people willing to put their lives on the line for his sake. Furthermore, if it were solely up to him, he would've turned himself over to Voldemort two weeks ago, when he was quite desperate to be reunited with Sirius. Harry grimaced.

            Those first weeks back on Privet Drive had been, in all honesty, hell. Though he'd been miserable at school, at least there had been a cushion of distraction and companionship in misery there that had made it somehow bearable. That had been stripped away at Privet Drive. 

            The Dursleys were terrified of treating him wrongly, but that fear only made them hate him all the more. For his part, he had stayed away from them. In fact, those first few days, he hadn't even stirred from his bed. They had left him alone until it was time to send off his first wellbeing-check note to the Order (every third day), and in the void, Harry's thoughts had descended into a frenzy of guilty self-examination. 

            He had feverishly thought through his actions over the year, starting with last summer's events and the trial by the Ministry in which he was a pawn and ending with the revelation of the prophecy which again reduced him to a pawn and led to that horrible frenzy of emotion in Dumbledore's office. Most of the recollection was simply fodder for the blaze of self-incrimination and hatred that consumed him. How could he have made so many mistakes? How could he have been so stupid? And now, how could anyone expect him to carry on, to do anything at all, much less do the impossible—kill the most powerful Dark Lord in hundreds of years?

            For thirty-six hours, Harry had not eaten; he had not slept. He had only staggered to the loo when his body would not leave him alone. Over and over again, he desperately re-hashed the events, trying to see what he could have changed and how many different ways he could have ensured Sirius' survival, if he had only known . . . . 

            In the end, it made no difference whether he understood what had happened or not. The fact was that Voldemort knew Harry and had used his love for Sirius against him. It was a simple plan, one any fool could come up with. And despite his vehement self-loathing, Harry found that he could not unwish his love, nor could he undo his mistakes. He would give anything—_anything— _to have Sirius back, but it was impossible. Whether he wallowed in self-pity, destroyed himself in self-hatred, or simply floated along in numbness, Sirius would not be coming back. Ever.__

            So it was that after thirty-six hours, as Vernon had banged on Harry's door to threaten him with bodily harm if he didn't come to breakfast, Harry resigned himself to the fact that all he could do now was vow _not_ to let the same mistake happen again. He had chewed his food painfully, trying to get his stomach to accept food again, as the Dursleys stared at him unendingly. For the first time, Harry had been glad he _didn't_ love them, and glad they had never loved him. No one could use them to get to him. Anybody else he cared about was liable to be used that way. After all, Voldemort knew it had worked once . . .

             Harry returned to the present and tried to free himself from the binding sheets. This train of thought crashed at the same point every morning. He was setting himself an impossible task. If he was "the One", then he had to fight Voldemort and kill him, or be killed and let the world perish. This time, he vowed he'd be ready; and this time, he'd do it alone rather than risk anyone else again. How else could he protect those he cared about? It simply had to be done. Harry sighed and sat up in bed, fighting to disentangle the sheets. He had to do this. 

            Harry reached over to the bedside table and grabbed his glasses. His stomach growled, but it would be several hours before breakfast. Lunch yesterday was a long way away. He stood, scrubbing at the stubby hairs on his chin and stretching to full height with his arms over his head. Several joints popped and a wide yawn took him over completely. He stumbled to the bathroom still in his pajamas.

            He hadn't replied to Ron's last letter, or to Ginny's first. He'd only written to Hermione to request books on Occlumency and Potions. Neville and Luna's letters lay unopened on his desk. Guilt ate away at Harry every time he picked them up. They had risked their lives for him, only to walk into a trap. He owed them an apology before he cut them loose. All of them.

            And today was the day. He'd finished his essay. Now it was time to clear his conscience a little. 

            After showering and shaving—he had discovered after three forays into that world that stubble was among his least favorite things—Harry dressed and sat back at his desk. He'd write Ron first. That one would be the easiest. Hermione . . . well, she might misunderstand. He wasn't good at putting stuff like this into words. Hedwig hooted approvingly as soon as his quill started scratching. 

            _Ron,_

_            I hope you are feeling much better after the attack. At least now you have scars. (You did always want one, you know.) Maybe people will forget to notice mine now—_

            Harry crossed that line out, then crumpled up the parchment and started over. "Prat," he mumbled at himself.

            _Ron,_

_            I hope you are feeling much better after the attack. At least now you have scars. (You did always want one, you know.)_

_            I am writing to say thanks. You've been a great friend and all I've done is get you into trouble over and over again. I'm not quite sure why you've stuck with me. But there you have it. You have, even when it involved prats like Malfoy, giant three-headed dogs, convicts— evil or otherwise, and even Death Eaters. _

_            I am sorry—terribly sorry for dragging you to the Ministry and for all that happened there. Really. _

_            Take care._

            Harry signed it mechanically and rubbed at his stinging eyes. "One down, four to go." There was an uncomfortable lump in his throat that would not go away, and it grew as he contemplated the next letter_—_Ginny's.

            _Ginny,_

_            I hope you are feeling completely recovered now. I've had some time to think—actually, I've had a great deal of time to think—and I've remembered what you said about being, well, possessed by Tom. Do you mind me bringing it up? If it is terribly insensitive of me, please skip this and go to the bottom part. But I just had to ask, because—_

            Harry stopped writing. The words were just begging to be written, but was it safe? Was it wise? His thoughts whirled, but he could not halt the words. He continued:

            _—because at the end of Tom's duel with Dumbledore, he possessed me completely.__ I have never felt such pain in my life, far worse than the Cruciatus. I wanted to die. I wanted to be with Sirius, with my parents. And then, somehow, those thoughts made Tom leave, something about how I felt. I just have to ask: did you ever feel that? Did he hurt you like that, too? It's difficult to ask, but I should have before._

_             I don't mean to pry._

_            One other thing, I am sorry for dragging you to the Ministry and putting you in danger. It was foolish of me to go and irresponsible as well. I'm surprised your parents are still speaking to me. I am sorry, terribly sorry._

_            Take care._

            Harry put down the quill, feeling sick and unable to continue. Why had he dredged all that up? Why had he asked? He'd never be able to send the letter now. It was too personal. He folded it, anyway, but put it away in a drawer. He didn't have the heart to refashion it just now. The bed was beckoning.

            Harry walked over and fell on the rumpled covers, slipping his glasses off and laying them on the table. He rubbed at his eyes and the wetness there. Would it never go away—the memories? 

            That moment suddenly came back to him and swallowed him up. He felt again the searing pain, and the assurance that he'd never been closer to death . . . that if he only reached out, he would feel the other side of the veil and those he loved. He turned over to bury his face in the mattress and moaned in agony. He didn't have the will to move again, and fell asleep with his face in a damp patch.

******

            "BOY! Breakfast is ready!" 

            Harry started and found himself still lying facedown on his bed. He hadn't dreamed. Had he really been asleep? He stumbled downstairs, feeling his stomach come alive at the smell of bacon. His mouth watered but he forced himself to walk into the kitchen warily, never quite sure what he would find when he got there.   

            This morning was a "family" breakfast with everyone in attendance. Harry sighed. At these uncomfortable events, Dudley's usual occupations were inching himself as far away from Harry as possible and eating less than enough to support one fourth of his body weight. His eyes darted about the room now as though seeking escape from his body. Harry took the chair closest to him. Dudley quivered like a bowstring that had just been plucked by a large, terrible hand. Harry stifled a smile. Vernon had buried himself behind the paper, refusing to be engaged in a war of wills. Petunia seated herself. 

            "Diddyums, what were you planning on doing today?" Her voice was as starched as the apron she'd just deposited on the counter. Dudley looked at her with terror-filled eyes and shook his head violently. She ignored the look and continued on about doing some summer cleaning, for which she would need his help. It occurred to Harry that Dudley should be protesting and insisting Harry do it instead, if things were normal. He risked a glance over to see Dudley's eyes grow even wider, as though the mutual thought had made him guilty.

            "I'll do it," he squeaked. "I'll do it. Don't bother Harry."

            Harry dropped his gaze to the table. His cousin looked pitiful. The change in him had been gradual, starting with the attack from the dementors last year from which he had never recovered. He'd lost weight at school, enough to be classified simply as "fat" instead of "absurdly obese." Actually, Harry hadn't once seen him eat a normal meal since he'd been at home. Dudley picked at his food, much as Harry always had. Perhaps he bolted it after Harry had gone; it was possible. But now he felt ashamed for even momentarily enjoying Dudley's discomfort. Dementors were no childish nightmare. Dudley had every right to be afraid.

            As for himself, half of Harry's appetite had just diminished. But he still managed to eat four rashers of bacon, three poached eggs and several pieces of still-warm toast. After all, he reminded himself, punishment by starvation was apparently still a viable option for Petunia, so he had to take every opportunity to stave it off. As he left the table, he thanked Aunt Petunia quietly and took his plate to the sink. He almost felt grateful enough for the food to do dishes, but decided that leaving the Dursleys alone would be a better reward for them. 

            He was halfway up the stairs before he heard a shriek from Petunia and a bawling yell from Vernon. He turned and vaulted over the railing—landing with a thump and propelling himself into the kitchen, wand out and pointed at—

            "Fawkes?" The beautiful bird flew to him at once with a distressed cry. Uncle Vernon's last swing at the creature missed by inches. Harry found himself with his wand accidentally pointed at Aunt Petunia. He turned it to Uncle Vernon with a jerk, who was moving toward him now, fist raised.

            "PUT THAT THING AWAY!" Vernon pointed at Harry's wand as if it were a loaded gun. Fawkes landed on Harry's shoulder and squeezed with his claws. Harry slowly lowered his wand.

            "It's just Professor Dumbledore's bird. He's a phoenix and he's harmless."

            "GET THAT BLOODY BIRD OUT OF HERE! IF ANYONE SAW HIM FLY THROUGH SOLID GLASS LIKE THAT, WE'RE THROUGH! WE'LL BE THE TALK OF THE NEIGHBORHOOD!'"

            "I'm sorry, Uncle Vernon. I'll take him upstairs." Harry backed out of the room and turned to exit, feeling relief sweep over him as Fawkes trilled out a happy greeting. Harry scratched under the bird's chin and felt the soft feathers slide under his touch. He smiled for the first time in a week and took the stairs slowly so as not to ruffle Fawkes unnecessarily. When he reached his room, he took the parchment from Fawkes' leg and moved him over to Hedwig's cage. 

            "Sorry for the accommodations, but we're a bit more humble here." Hedwig hooted at him rather indignantly. "Sorry, girl, I didn't mean to insult you. I just meant that Fawkes isn't used to a cage, since he's a phoenix and all." She tilted her head at him and hooted softly. Fawkes' plumage swept through the bottom bars of the cage as he bent to drink out of Hedwig's bowl. Harry considered giving him an owl treat, but thought it might be beneath him. Then he thought again and got out four, placing two in front of Hedwig and two nearer to Fawkes, letting him decide if it was something he wanted or not. Fawkes just stared at them and trilled. 

            "Well, it's your prerogative," Harry answered. He turned away to open the letter. It was written in Dumbledore's thin, airy hand.

_            Harry,_

_            I trust that you are well, even if you are struggling to maintain balance. This latest death has been hard on everyone, but I fear even more difficult for you. We must not forget that this is a war and that each of us has pledged to give our all in this. Sirius could do no less. Nor indeed, no more. I fear this may be of no comfort to you right now. But in time, perhaps._

_            The cause of my letter also may not be the herald of joy for you, but it is necessary. Occlumency, though a sore topic with you for obvious reasons, is still a necessity. However, your previous instructor is not able to risk being seen at your address for even more obvious reasons. Hence, your instruction will be picked up by someone who is, perhaps, more comfortable with you and who is, himself, in need of a project._

_            Remus Lupin has agreed to supervise your future lessons. I hope this is agreeable to you. At the very least, his methods should be less difficult. Please return Fawkes to me with your agreement, as he is the most reliable communication by post that I know of. Phoenixes are deucedly hard to catch and have the most irritating ability to recreate themselves even if they are killed. Plus they have ways of popping in and out of structures that defy reason. _

_            All of this is why I feel safe enough to warn you of the following, Harry. It has come to our attention that Tom is planning to step up his attacks on your mind in an attempt to dislodge you from __Privet Drive__. Perhaps the wards that are in place will be enough to aid you, but I think with your connection to Tom, perhaps they will not be as effective as we hoped. Be wary. Do not trust the visions. Send Hedwig if you need help discerning them, but trust only Fawkes to send important information. _

_            Be brave. Be cunning. Try to love, for it is the greatest asset in your fight and you must not let it be quenched. Above all, try to rest. This may be your last period of inactivity for a while. Perhaps you will look back and see it as an oasis. Perhaps we all will._

_            With the greatest thoughts for happiness and well-being,_

_            Albus Percival Dumbledore_

            Harry's thoughts were completely jumbled by the end of the letter. As usual, Dumbledore was unfailingly honest, yet there seemed to be things he was holding back. Harry gritted his teeth in frustration. He hated to continue being in a position of trusting Dumbledore's judgment. But during his many hours of reflection, he had not come to a solid decision about his mentor. At once, he seemed a shining example of what is good and what is right, as well as a warning of what terrible consequences can come from human frailty. 

            Harry sighed. Dumbledore was adding something on to an already impossible list. But maybe he was right. At the end of his hours of contemplation, the rules he had come up with in order to keep himself from future mistakes were simple: 

**            _1) Listen to Hermione. _**

**_            2) Learn Occlumency._**

**_            3) Train to fight better _**_(shields, speed)._

**_            4) Become an unregistered animagus _**_(if possible)._

**_            5)  Learn to fight without a wand._**

            The last one was necessary to defeat Tom. If their wands would always link and cause Priori Incantatem, then there would be no way to destroy him through that. Wormtail's wand had brought his master back to life. Unless someone could Priori Incantatem Wormtail's wand, then it would be . . . impossible.

            Harry sat up ramrod straight. Priori Incantatem. Wormtail's wand. It was so simple. Could it undo the spell? It couldn't bring someone back to life, but could it bring someone back to death?

            Hermione.

            Harry grabbed a parchment and his quill.

            _Hermione,_

_            I—_

            Harry suddenly remembered that he had promised to apologize to her. He stopped and forced himself to regain the right frame of mind. 

            _Hermione,_

_            I hope that you have recovered fully from the wound you received at the Ministry. I will never forget the moment that you were injured on my account, after doing your best to keep me from going and I was—_

Harry sat back and laid down his quill, pressing his hands against his eyes. He had to get through with this. 

            _—and I was a complete prat about it. I'm sorry. You have been a great friend always. You've never failed me. _

_            Now that I've buttered you up, would you please do some research for me? I promise that it's not for something stupid, and you are surely closer to a library than I am. I need to know anything about Priori Incantatem that you can find. Remember, that's what happened when Tom and I locked wands in fourth year?_

_            I would appreciate any information you could find out. _

_            Thank you again._

_            Take care._

            Harry signed his name and skimmed it again, stopping when he came to the last few sentences. He wasn't sure when he had stopped calling Voldemort by his presumptive title, but somehow it seemed more right to call him by his given name, by his hated Muggle name. Actually, it appealed to Harry to call something more derisive that played off his even more hated Muggle surname, something like "the Riddler." How Tom would hate that!

            He folded the letter and called Hedwig over. She nudged past Fawkes and landed on Harry's shoulder possessively, her claws digging into the sore spot Fawkes had made earlier. Harry winced and petted her.

            "Don't worry. You're still my best girl. What would I do without you?" She hooted, mollified and jumped onto his desk so that he could attach the letter. "Take this to Hermione, please. Don't wait too long for a reply. I've got letters for Ron and Ginny, too." 

            She tilted her head to the side, as if to say, "Well, send them on with me, now!"

            "I can't. I've got to revise the one for Ginny. It's too—well, it's not what I meant to write. I'll do it again later. Just come back as quick as you can, 

okay?" Hedwig hooted. Harry walked over and threw the window open, moving out of the way just in time to miss being buzzed by her on the way out. She dipped down and then flapped hard to gain altitude, clearing the trees easily. Harry turned back around to Fawkes.

            "I guess it's your turn. I'm not quite sure what to write." Fawkes stepped out of the cage and swooped over to the desk. Harry's hand was tired now, but he sat and prepared himself to write. 

            _Professor Dumbledore,_

_            Thank you for your concern. Things are going well here. Or rather, as well as can be expected. Moody's "talk" at the end of term with the Dursleys has had a pronounced effect on them (here_, pronounced_ meaning instilling great fear to the point of ludicrousness). Tell the Order things are fine, no need to check up on me._

_            I miss Sirius but I don't blame you for his death._

_            I am determined to learn Occlumency, and am delighted to hear that Remus will be the one to teach me. At least he won't use hate as an excuse to violate my mind._

            What?! What possessed him to write that? Harry cursed whatever veritaserum effect had been in those bacon and eggs and wondered if he should start the letter over. But he was tired of writing and as the last comment was at least true, he left it alone. 

            _So far the wards are holding. I've not had the slightest twitch of pain from my scar or any kind of vision—yet. I had thought Tom was lying low after his encounter with you. Perhaps my luck will run out soon. I will keep in touch._

_            I am sorry for my behavior in your office. It was unfair to you.        _

_            Sincerely,_

            Harry signed his name and shuddered through the sudden tears on his cheeks. He needed to stop writing before he bared his complete soul to the next person who passed by the window. Ridiculous. He folded the letter into a small parcel and tied it to Fawkes' delicate leg carefully. 

            "There you are. Now, poof off, or however it is that you get there."

            But instead of disappearing, the bird gave a thrilling trill, walked to the edge of the desk and jumped off, soaring out of the window with a flash of brilliant tail feathers following. Harry watched him disappear over the trees and wondered if his eyes were playing tricks on him or not. Harry was exhausted. It was only ten in the morning. He grabbed the thinner book on Occlumency off of his desk and fell back into bed. It was only moments before he was asleep . . . again.

**_  
_**

**_******_**

            Harry spent the rest of the day studying, writing a shorter essay for Professor Binns, his ghostly History Professor, on _The First Rise of You-Know-Who_, ending with a section that was difficult to write: on his own parents' death and his mother's sacrifice. He had a feeling his essay would be a bit different from most of the other students, because he actually included quotes. Whether it was from the stress of remembering or the suggestion from Dumbledore, or actual activity out in the world, Harry's scar twinged throughout the day. 

            He woke twice during the night with surges of pain, but was able to fall back asleep again after they faded. However, the pain brought on nightmares that were worse than usual. Once he woke up to find Aunt Petunia standing over him, shaking him.

            "If you don't settle down," she hissed, "I will wake your Uncle to deal with you, and he does not like to be awoken in the middle of the night." Harry swallowed, vividly remembering learning that lesson as a child, pattering up the stairs desperately into his Uncle and Aunt's room for the second night in a row after bad dreams, only to be thrashed into a sobbing pile in the corner. He'd never sought them out again. 

            It was only after she'd left the room and locked his door that he remembered he was almost sixteen and couldn't be thrashed that way again. He wished that he could put a Silencing Charm on his bedroom. But then again, if he had to deal with all the things life threw at him, then yes—he was going to have nightmares and people were just going to have to put up with it! That was the price they paid for him to the Boy-Who-Lived and maybe the Boy-Who-Defeated-You-Know-Who. 

            Eventually, he was able to fall back to sleep, though it was in the middle of a damp patch of the mattress again. 

******

            After breakfast (which Harry was quite relieved to get after the night's events), he tried several times to write Ginny another letter. He ended up with five crumpled parchments. There was no way he could apologize and ask her the questions he needed to without being honest. And it turned out that if he was going to be honest with her, he actually _could_ get more stupid from there. His only other option was to send a pratty, pretend letter that she would see right through. He still remembered with a slight flush the way she'd dissected him last year at Easter when he was trying to hide how bad he was feeling, desperately wanting to talk to Sirius. She'd pinched part of his chocolate egg and drawn him out despite himself. She hadn't been satisfied until she'd gotten the truth out of him. 

            So, without looking at the letter again, he mailed it along with Ron's, sending out the disgruntled Hedwig who had just returned from Hermione's. 

            Five minutes later, he was kicking himself. He stalked over to the bed and threw himself down. It all came from him being so overwrought, feeling so guilty all the time. He cursed under his breath. If he ever had to leave to go on another suicide mission, he'd definitely go alone. Sure, without them, he'd probably die this time, but at least the Death Eaters would take him to Tom and he'd have his shot at the Dark Lord. _Right now, that's all I want_, he thought darkly as he sat up and stared out the window. 

            "Just a shot . . ."

            If he could just get a little more information, or a little more confidence in his dueling abilities, something to give him an edge, he'd go off on his own and set a little trap for Tom. That had to be the only safe way to_—_  

            A silent cry left Harry's mouth. Terrible pain punctured his thoughts. He curled up until he fell to the floor, fighting the blinding, splintering pain as best he could, gripping at his scar as though he could squeeze the pain out. It didn't fade. It didn't move. It just cut into him, going on and on. A breathless moan left him. If it didn't stop, he might go mad. He writhed on the floor, silently begging for reprieve. Was this what the Longbottoms had felt? How long . . . how long would it take before he couldn't even remember who he was? It was so all-consuming . . .

            Then it stopped, leaving a ringing silence in his head. Harry collapsed weakly against the floor, his limbs trembling as though he'd just had the Cruciatus thrown at him, thoughts scattered like leaves on the wind. When he next looked at the clock, he'd lost almost an hour of time. 

            Harry slept on and off the rest of the day, glad to have Hedwig return again at nightfall, even if he did get yelled at by Vernon for it. Dumbledore's letter had frightened him that perhaps Death Eaters might be after Hedwig. But then, it wouldn't surprise him if the Order had put some kind of protection on his owl. In fact, he wondered if guards had been added at the Burrow and at Neville's, Luna's and Hermione's houses. Surely Dumbledore had thought of that. Harry opened Ron's letter first with that in the back of his mind.

            __

_            Harry,_

_            You big, bloomin' twit, stop blaming yourself! If I'd been having visions of my dad or someone being tortured, I'd have done the same bloody thing. Only difference is, I would've never gotten us out of that room filled with Death Eaters. You were brilliant, Harry, brilliant! So stop ruddy beating yourself up and start figuring out how to teach that stuff you did in the D.A.!_

_            As far as scars go, yeah, I reckon I now trounce you good! Mum and Ginny said it's worst on my back where I can't see it. It doesn't bother me, although I've been having wicked dreams about giant squids attacking. Hermione says it's recall or something like that. _

_            Scars and nightmares. I'm starting to sound like you, eh? Maybe they can call me "The-Boy-Who-Always-Sat-Next-to-The-Boy-Who-Lived-At-Dinnertime." _

_            Hey, wonder who's angling for Griffindor's Quidditch Captain? Think McGonagall's going to consider me? You'd better rest up now, then, 'cause if it's me, we're going to work our bums off next year and that's a promise!_

_            Stop blaming yourself and I mean it._

_            Ron_

            Harry smiled wryly, in the very act of blaming himself. Ron was scarred for life, having nightmares . . . Self-revulsion filled Harry. He'd made them targets. He closed his eyes and lay back on the bed again. He had to distance himself. No more letters. No more friends, unless it was Draco Malfoy. Then if he got hurt, it wouldn't be so bad. 

            After half an hour, the self-pity got old and Harry weakened and reached for Ginny's letter. He rolled over on his stomach and started reading.

            _Harry,_

_            Stop blaming yourself, you prat! If you remember correctly, you tried to leave me behind when you went to the Ministry about forty million times, but I wouldn't let you do it. In fact, the only person you didn't try to dodge was Ron, which makes no sense to me seeing as how he has the common sense of a garden gnome. I suppose since he's about a foot-and-a-half taller than I am, it seems like he can take care of himself easier than me. Even Bellatrix picked on me! "The little one . . . ." _

_            Fudge that! (did you know that's an official swear word now?) I knew exactly what I was getting into when I climbed on that Thestral. I know better than anyone else what Tom is like and that it was very probable he was trying to trap you. After all, he'd used me to do the same thing to you before, when he wanted you down in the Chamber of Secrets. Remember? _

_            Yeah, I know about guilt. The only reason Tom ever tried to trap and kill you was because I told him about you and how you were the Boy-Who-Lived. Lots of people were endangered and hurt because of me, you most of all._

_             You have to focus on what really happened and what your intentions were. It was simple. You thought Sirius was being hurt and you went to help him. It was brave and noble of you, whatever the outcome. We insisted on coming with you, but when we were trapped, you saved us by thinking on your feet and fighting until help got there. If it hadn't been for you, there would have been so many more deaths._

_            And, no, (grrrrrr) we wouldn't have been there if it hadn't been for you in the first place. (Stop furrowing your brow like that…) But you didn't want to go to the Department, you had to go. And you tried to stop us from coming. You aren't responsible for the injuries. Tom and his followers are. So there!_

_            Now, as for the possession, you're right. It's not something I like to talk about. I feel worse when I dredge it all up. But it was very different from what you experienced, if that makes you feel any better. It wasn't painful as I remember it. It was just sort of like what Ron said the Imperius feels like. I sort of wanted to do those things, even though I didn't, if that makes any sense at all. _

_            Tom's possession of you must have been different because he forced it on you. It sounds horrible! Please don't let him do that again. (Don't smirk, you're stronger than you think you are!) It's amazing to me that your thoughts drove him out, though, of course, since those thoughts were of love, it makes sense. You know what that means, don't you? Whenever Tom is haunting you, think of love. It must guard your mind in some way, don't you think? My Mum told me to think about my love for my family whenever I have nightmares about Tom. It does work._

_            I miss Sirius, too. Not like you do, of course, but in a breathless, pained sort of way that surprises me sometimes. He was sort of an ideal to me, and in some ways he reminded me of you. Everyone feels badly about his death and we all miss him._

_            Well, almost a month of the summer down. (Yes, I know it's only been fifteen days, but I was trying to make you feel better, twit!) It's been quieter without the twins and Percy (don't ask), but that's been nice. Every now and then, I catch a glimpse of our bodyguards roaming around the yard, and I know exactly how you feel—shut in and presumed helpless! Irritating, isn't it?_

_            Just remember that all of us are counting on you to survive the summer, and with Death Eaters lurking, you're safer inside! Does that help at all? Oh well, just spend the time imagining Snape covered in boils, it gets me by on the down times._

_            Grinning,_

_            Ginny_

            Harry laughed out loud for the first time in weeks. Ginny was such a strange mix of all the Weasleys. Somehow, she'd managed to make him feel better about things. And that part about love . . . .

            Harry lay back on the bed with his hands behind his head. Dumbledore had said something about love as well—focusing on love. Not an easy thing to do. Harry could barely say the word out loud and of course he had never told anyone that he . . . loved them. But then, who would he tell? The Dursleys were out, his parents gone. Eventually, he might have said it to Sirius, but he'd never get the chance now. His friends were very important to him; they were actually part of him, but did he love them? It wasn't a comfortable train of thought, and Harry turned away from it quickly. He didn't know how he felt. 

            He spent the rest of the evening on homework, after the others went to sleep. Since, unfortunately for him, he'd finished his History essay as well as his Potions essay, now he only had a Transfiguration assignment and a book to read for Charms, and the whole summer to do them in.

**  
**

******

**_Coming Soon-  
Chapter 3: Adventures in Eating  
Enough letters! Enough moping already! On with the danger! On with the  
plot!_**


	3. Adventures in Eating

_Disclaimer: J.K. Rowling and her wonderful creation, including its characters, places, and things belong to her and her alone. Being inspired, and being bereft of book six, I do nothing but emulate and elaborate. This is not intended to steal from her work, or for any monetary benefit._

**Chapter 3- _Adventures in Eating_**

            Harry woke Monday morning, vaguely glad that Vernon would be going back to work that day and he'd only see him at breakfast. It had been a strain over the weekend to remain quiet and inobtrusive. Knowing the storm that was brewing, Harry decided to do his best to keep his hair neat and out of his face. After his shower, he combed through it carefully and froze in amazement. His hair was lying almost flat. With a gaping mouth, he surveyed the top of his head, where the heavy locks were pulled down by the weight of his longer hair. _Wicked._

            Of course, Vernon still wouldn't be satisfied with the way Harry's hair fell unevenly around his shirt collar, so Harry rummaged through the bathroom drawers and found a rubber band. Thinking of Bill Weasley, he pulled his hair back and fastened it with the rubber band, then stared at himself in the mirror. He looked completely different somehow. Without all the scruffy hair to draw attention, his eyes seemed much more prominent. Unfortunately, so did his scar. _Bugger._ He'd surely get accused of trying to show it off if he kept his hair this way. 

            Oh well. No solution was perfect. Maybe when he was older, he'd shave his hair all off. If he actually outlived Tom, he'd do it just for fun. He smiled as he headed down to breakfast, hoping against hope that his new, improved hair would put off the inevitable row. Harry could feel Vernon's beady eyes on his hair as he sat down to breakfast.

            "Boy, will there be any bloody birds at breakfast this morning?" 

            Harry grabbed himself a piece of toast, thinking how amazing it was that he'd come to hate such an innocuous word as _boy._

            "Only if Aunt Petunia's serving chicken." 

            Vernon huffed at him and fluffed out his paper before settling behind it once more. Dudley had gone jerky again, nervously looking over at the window now and again as if a flock of birds might suddenly attack.

            "Have a tic in your neck, Dudders?" Harry had no idea why he smiled so brightly at Dudley, but as the blood drained out of his cousin's face, he fought the urge to laugh. He wasn't trying to be intimidating at all anymore, and his cousin was still petrified.

            "Stop baiting him, you freak," Aunt Petunia spat at him. "Can't you leave him alone? Isn't bad enough you traipsing around here like you own the place when _nobody_ wants you here? Just eat your food and go back upstairs so we can live in peace." Harry wished he could just snap back that Dudley had never left him alone, so why shouldn't he return the favor, but his heart failed him. He felt alien and chastised, and a bit guilty. However, knowing his aunt, he stayed to eat a little, determined not to be starved at his aunt's whim. He even took two extra rashers of bacon as he headed back up to his room.

            When a shriek came from the kitchen almost right away, he smiled before heading back down again.

            "Fawkes has such lovely timing."

******

            Dumbledore's letter said that Lupin was to be there at the Dursley's residence on Friday night at seven o'clock sharp. Unfortunately, they would have to practice Occlumency at the house, since transferring Harry from one place to another was inevitably dangerous. He understood that and returned the post with a quick note agreeing to the time and day. He reminded Dumbledore to tell the Order he was fine, a well-check note a whole day early, but it would save him the trouble later. The every-three-day rule was quite troublesome. Harry had, at several points, considered letting the time lapse just to get the Dursleys on Moody's black list, but they had the most annoying habit of pressing him to send the notes. 

            Now he dreaded telling them about the Occlumency lessons, and decided to put it off until Friday. It would give them less time to take it out on him. 

            Hermione's post came later in the morning complete with two books wrapped in paper, and Harry was thankful that Vernon was out. The books were interesting, both aimed at preparing someone interested in Auror training. There were many spells in them he'd never seen before, and among the few he recognized was the Priori Incantatem curse. Apparently, it was used in official questioning sessions to corroborate testimony. The letter she sent with it was short. It sounded as if she were busy doing more research for him, and didn't have time to chat. She did explain that she was fine and lectured him soundly on the detrimental effects of carrying around too much guilt.

            _You're doing Voldemort's work for him. This way, you'll destroy yourself! Don't you think that's just what he wants? _

            She was right, of course, and since "Listen to Hermoine" was his number one lesson learned from the previous year, Harry tried to re-direct his thoughts that day whenever he felt guilty. It wasn't easy, but once or twice, he found himself taking Ginny's advice and trying to think loving thoughts. Inevitably, Harry would remember the way Sirius had listened to him and given him advice and the way he had looked at him with such affection. It made Harry's eyes sting and water, but there was a warmth in his heart as well as an ache.  

            During the afternoon, he read the unopened letters from Neville and Luna, then dashed off brief replies, reassuring them he was alright, thanking them and apologizing for endangering their lives on the mission. They were the easiest letters so far. Before he sent Hedwig off, he wrote quick notes to Ron, Hermione and Ginny, excusing himself from writing again because of the danger to Hedwig. Maybe they would buy it. 

            He watched Hedwig leave on the mission with a lump in his throat. He felt like he'd just burned a bridge behind him. Maybe eventually he'd find a way to combat Tom without pulling away. Maybe Hermione would figure out what he was doing and forbid him to do it, which would set his plan firmly against rule number one. That thought set him back a bit. But for now . . . .

            Harry busied himself for the next two days mostly reading the books Hermione had sent. The Occlumency book she'd owled him earlier in the Summer frustrated him to no end. It assumed that the reader already knew the basics of a study called Sensing, which it insisted must be built upon for truly effective Occlumency. Sensing was the ability to detect a magical signature from any object or person, which Harry knew for certain that he could not do. As a test, he got out his sneakoscope, closed his eyes, rolled it across the floor and tried to sense where it had landed. Behind his eyelids, he could see streaks of light fading, neon shapes of what might be there if he opened his eyes, but nothing corresponded to the sneakoscope. Harry sighed. Why hadn't Snape even mentioned Sensing? Now he was as far behind as always and would have to wait for Lupin's help. 

            In disgust, Harry buried himself in the Defense books, practicing the suggested wand movements, spell words and deflection techniques. Who knew what he'd need to know in his future battles? 

            He had drifted off Wednesday evening, nose buried in the first Defense book when Voldemort first disturbed his sleep. 

            "Master," came a voice from behind. Harry turned to see a bulky but small Death Eater cowering before him. His right hand flashed silver in the dim light.

            "Yes, Wormtail, what do you have to report?" 

            "They have captured Potter's friend."

            Harry chuckled and clenched the fingers of his right hand into a fist. "Excellent. Bring him in."

            There was a groan of pain from somewhere in the next room, and rough voices goading a prisoner. The amount of time it took to move the prisoner irritated Harry. He threw out his arm, wand extended. A shriek and a scream answered his muttered curse, then the sounds of a scuffle. Almost immediately, from the elegantly arched doorway, three figures made their way forward, two draped in black pulling the limp form of another. The form was dark-haired, with tattered robes that dragged behind him. He was tall, and heavy enough to give the Death Eaters pause. They were walking oddly, as if they were also in pain. They cast the third at Harry's feet.

            Harry smiled. "Werewolf, you have at last been brought to serve me."

            "Never," came the weak voice. In obvious pain, Remus Lupin looked up. "I will die before I serve you."

            "That can be arranged. Your purpose has already been served." Harry laughed and brought up his wand mercilessly. "Crucio!"  Lupin fought the pain at first, then began screaming. The screaming went on louder and louder, until a closer sound rang out on top of it.

            "Brat! WAKE _UP!"_

            Harry jumped back and rolled out of bed, landing on his knees, heaving breaths, wand somehow in his hand and pointed before he could even register who was standing beside the bed. Aunt Petunia was frozen there, her hand raised as if to strike. 

            "Aunt Pe-Petunia?" Harry stammered, fighting to keep the room from spinning; his head felt like it might split open. "What is it?"

            "Shut up and go back to sleep before you wake Vernon up!" She turned abruptly and strode out of the room. Harry crumpled almost immediately, sinking down against the bed, shivering. He closed his eyes and struggled to remember Dumbledore's warning. This was just an attempt to get Harry to leave the house. Of course Tom would try this again. He didn't really have Lupin. It was just a vision. Not real. 

            Since Hedwig was out delivering letters, Harry had no option but to wait. He eventually relaxed enough to doze on and off during the remaining nighttime hours, his muscles cramped and pained from the aftereffects of the Cruciatus every time he awoke. Breakfast was served to him alone in his room and he hit the books feverishly, breaking only to eat a piece of cheese jammed between the heels of a loaf of bread for lunch. Hedwig finally came back that afternoon after her many missions, looking ready for a rest. 

            "Sorry, girl," Harry apologized as he fed her five owl treats. "I know that was a lot of work. I guess Luna was probably difficult to find." Hedwig nipped Harry's finger. "I know, I know. But I have one more that has to be delivered. It's urgent. Take this to Dumbledore. If there's no emergency, just stay there and rest a while, all right?" 

            She hooted indignantly, as if to say that _of course_ she would rest, but Harry just smiled and lifted her over to the window again. She shuddered, resettled her feathers and then turned her tail to him. Harry sighed as she lifted off and flapped away, away from the stifling bedroom that had become a prison to him. Not for the first time, he wondered what his Animagus form would be, and if it might be something that flew. He'd like nothing more join Hedwig in the sky.

            An hour later, the doorbell rang and Harry listened with interest until Aunt Petunia replied in her fending-off-salespeople voice. It didn't work. In a few minutes, the very soft-spoken lady was in the parlor talking over recipes and cooking tips with a great deal of excitement. She was apparently selling something that Aunt Petunia couldn't refuse, though it was suddenly near impossible to hear over the virtual destruction from Dudley's video games next door. Vernon was still at work for a few more hours. 

            It suddenly struck Harry that he was still hungry after the meager sandwich Petunia had shoved through the catflap for lunch. If she was busy in the parlor, then he might be able to sneak down to the kitchen unnoticed. With only a few seconds for contemplation, he eased out into the hallway, glad his door had not been locked. Dudley's game roared loud enough to cover any inadvertent creaking.

            "Now, this particular one is my favorite," the lady proclaimed with energy downstairs. "It's something I've made for my family over and over again, and they've never figured out that it's a mix."

            Harry tuned out the conversation as it went on about temperature and aluminum pans and toothpicks and the like. He was all the way in the kitchen when he heart Aunt Petunia's soft footsteps on that blasted carpet. Her purse! Harry cut around the corner and slid into the pantry, trying to quiet his breathing. Aunt Petunia's flats clicked on the tiled surface as she walked to the cabinet to retrieve her purse. 

            "It's been ages since anything's inspired me this much, I really must confess," she called back over her shoulder. "Cleaning is more my forte." Her voice faded as she headed back in the parlor.

            Harry breathed a sigh of relief and looked around the pantry. It had been years since he'd been energetic or stupid enough to try to sneak food. A can of potato crisps caught his eye, and he grabbed it, along with a candy bar from Dudley's bribing jar. Then he stealthily made his way down the hall, up the stairs and back into his room. He thought he heard Dudley's door click shut an instant after his, but it didn't matter. In his current frame of mind, Dudley would never tell.

            Harry sat at his desk and devoured the food, wishing desperately that he had thought to get a drink. But he felt a strange thrill at having made a successful run at the pantry for the first time in years. Why hadn't he done this before?

            Uncle Vernon got home early, and Harry stopped practicing in surprise. Guiltily, he ran over to hide the remains of his snack in the trash can. He'd empty it later into the kitchen trash. No one would know. With a deep breath, Harry stood back up and grabbed his wand. He was going through the fight at the Ministry in his mind, dissecting his performance and trying to improve it if he could. There were a few Auror spells he was working into his repertoire. Of course, it would be a lot easier if he had real targets to cast at, but he didn't. And since he couldn't cast real spells, anyway, it was a moot point. Lifting his wand, he suddenly paused. It was profoundly quiet downstairs now. What was Uncle Vernon doing? 

            Fifteen minutes later, Harry got a clue.

            "BOY! GET YOUR SHOES ON AND GET DOWN HERE!"

            Harry cursed under his breath. Not the haircut again. He sat on the edge of his bed and debated, then got to his feet and walked downstairs. He already had his shoes on.

            Uncle Vernon looked at him—and the hair that was pulled back so neatly—ready to yell, until he noticed Harry's shoes. "Well, it's good to see that you've finally come to your senses. Let's go." He was at the door in three strides. Harry risked a regretful look at Petunia before shattering the calm in the house with three quiet words:

            "I'm not going."

            "WHAT?" Vernon roared and wheeled around, pointing at Harry threateningly, moving closer with every word. "YOU'LL GET YOUR HAIR CUT LIKE A CIVILIZED, NORMAL PERSON AS LONG AS YOU LIVE UNDER MY ROOF, DO YOU HEAR ME?"

            Harry held his ground. "I said I'm not going and I meant it." As Vernon turned beet red and started shaking, Harry instincts fired warnings at him. He shook them off. "I'm sorry if that offends you—" 

            "NOT AS SORRY AS YOU WILL BE—" Vernon reared back, his fist raised. As Vernon swung, Harry crouched and knocked away the blow with his own fist. Vernon halted in mid-sentence, stunned. Then his face twisted with rage and he swung again, lower. Harry blocked it again, fury giving him strength. 

            "I'm NOT helpless anymore." He pressed forward, feeling heat radiate up into his face. "And despite what you think or whose house this is, I will NOT risk my life and yours to get a BLOODY HAIRCUT!" He dropped his hand and waited. The silence was broken only by his heavy breathing. Once he felt there was no further attack coming, he turned and headed upstairs. 

            Harry stomped his way up into his room and slammed the door, trying to calm his breathing. He waited for an explosion to come from downstairs, but there were only hushed voices, buzzing with intensity. He didn't reckon he'd made anything better by his actions tonight, but he didn't mind. At least he'd finally stood up for himself. No more ducking. No more dodging. No more running away. That was over.

            His dinner was another sandwich stuck through the catflap, this time with a pallid slice of nondescript sandwich meat between the bread. He ate it gratefully, having expected much less. He put off getting into bed until he was exhausted. Every time he closed his eyes, he could see Lupin grimacing in pain, lying helpless before Tom. It wasn't real; it couldn't be. Dumbledore would tell him if Lupin was in trouble. Right?

            The silence in his mind should have been reassuring, but doubts were creeping in. If Lupin disappeared, _would_ they tell Harry, risking that he might run off and try to rescue him, or would they share the information with him and let him in on the rescue plans? Harry punched his pillow angrily as he came to the conclusion that they probably wouldn't tell him anything. At least he'd had the vision and Dumbledore _had _to reply now with the truth. So far, that seemed to be the way he played the game. He would always answer truthfully, just not give all the information available.

            Harry's dreams, when he finally fell asleep, were vague mixtures of fears and reality. He was searching for Tom, but no one would leave him alone. Ron, Ginny and Hermione would pop out of trees and drop from airplanes, endangering themselves again and again. Harry frantically tried to convince them to go home, but they just laughed—and their laughter sounded a lot like Tom's.

******

            At breakfast on Friday, Vernon stiffly reminded Harry to send his well-check note to the Order or risk expulsion from the house. Harry took that to be an empty threat, though he didn't like the look in Vernon's eyes. He quietly said that he'd already sent a note off yesterday and Vernon seemed waspishly satisfied.

            After breakfast, Harry picked up the second of the Auror Defense books. It was interesting to see what spells had been used throughout the years to render wizards and witches compliant to the Ministry. Some of them sounded painful, but most of those had been rendered obsolete by more effective, less hurtful spells. Harry hadn't realized there was a handcuff charm, its effects closely resembling those of a pair of metal cuffs restraining the hands, except that it also prevented wandless magic. He wondered why Wormtail hadn't used that on him when tying him to the headstone. It would have been easier than the rope and gag. Harry tried to think about it clinically, but he could feel the black gulf beneath him again.

            If only he hadn't grabbed the trophy . . . .

            If only the acromantula had finished him off . . . .

            Harry closed the book and lay back on his bed. It was hopeless. Tom was too smart. He'd had Harry whisked away from Hogwarts by a portkey right in front of everyone who had been trying to protect him. There was simply no way to protect himself from another attempt. 

            But then Harry remembered—he didn't want to be protected. He wanted revenge. The vision of Lupin, true or not, was just one more thing on the list. Harry sat up, feeling a stiff resolve settle inside. He would take Tom down for all the pain and destruction he'd caused; it was all just a matter of when. With that in mind, he jumped off the bed, grabbed his wand and practiced dueling. 

            The movements had become almost a kind of meditation for him. He moved slowly and efficiently, whispering the curses and imagining their effect. After losing himself in several hours of work, he took a break to eat another sandwich. He was starting to wish that he'd saved some of that snack food yesterday.

            He read some more of the Occlumency book, until it bored him into a nap. Sensing was still beyond his grasp, and he was tired. He fought it for a few minutes, but the vision had robbed him of too much rest and he needed a sharp mind for the training that night, anyway. If Lupin was coming. Why hadn't Dumbledore written? Harry closed his eyes, remembering to clear his thoughts at the last second. How long had it been since he'd remembered? 

            Harry woke when a sharp pain penetrated his mind. He braced himself for another torture session, but this time, it remained dull. The pain took the form of a red glow that washed the insides of his eyes and a greedy, malevolent joy that permeated his being. Nausea soon followed; Harry fought to keep from retching. More colors played across his mind and he wondered if this was a message from Tom, or if this sort of pain naturally came in Technicolor. 

            After some time, the pain stopped so suddenly that Harry jolted, as if from a dream. He slowly opened his eyes and found that the room was bathed in deep purple from the last traces of sunset. There was the delicious smell of warm chocolate in the air. It reminded him vaguely of a dessert they served at Hogwarts and his stomach felt like he'd taken a dive on his broomstick.

            Harry stirred on the bed and rolled over. His head felt heavy, and his stomach was still close to revolting. He couldn't get up. He closed his eyes briefly, telling himself not to fall asleep again and wondering why Hedwig hadn't yet returned. 

            When Aunt Petunia's voice broke into his consciousness sometime later, he knew he'd done it again. Now there was also a tangy meat smell in the air, and the smell of hot, crusty bread. It must be nearing dinnertime. Who had cooked all that food?

            Harry scrambled out of bed, completely disoriented but hungry. A sudden thought made him open the window, just in cast Hedwig returned during dinner. At least maybe that way, Vernon wouldn't hear her. Harry quickly changed his shirt and went to the bathroom to check the damage. His face needed washing and his hair was disheveled enough to need re-fastening. After a little tidying and a few slaps to the face to wake him up, Harry headed down the stairs as quietly and quickly as possible, to give the Dursleys less to complain about.

            They were already halfway into their meal when he arrived. He was relieved to see they hadn't waited on him. "Sorry," he mumbled.

            "Yes, you are," Uncle Vernon snapped, and his eyes looked malicious. "Sit down. I have something to tell you, boy. There's rumors at Grunnings that they might be downsizing soon, cutting back hours and even firing some people." Uh-oh. Harry risked a look at Petunia. She was stiff and composed. They must have already discussed this. "If that happens, boy, I'm warning you, you'll be out on your backside before the freaks can get your bloody post saying you need help."

            "I know I made a promise," Petunia broke in calmly. "But if we can't afford to feed you, then what can we do? It's not as if you're paying your own way." Harry's eyes narrowed slightly at this. He'd been dreading the possibility of the Dursleys finding out about his wealth in the wizarding world. Had they figured it out somehow? Vernon stuffed enough ham in his mouth for three people and chewed noisily. He jabbed his fork in Harry's direction.

            "You'd better hope I don't get sacked, boy. It'll be your fault if I do."

            Harry didn't respond to that ridiculous statement. He just dumped cold potatoes and ham on his plate. His gaze fell on Dudley, who had stopped eating and starting poking again. The meal was a quiet one, with everyone else finishing long before Harry. He actually had quite an appetite, but his mind was preoccupied. It suddenly occurred to him that Tom feeling joyous, as he had been during the painful attack earlier, was not a good sign. But he could only guess at what it meant. Perhaps something was being orchestrated at Grunnings?

            Aunt Petunia had brought out a large chocolate cake to serve a piece to Dudley and Uncle Vernon, answering Harry's unspoken question about that smell. It had been a while since Harry had seen her cook like this, mostly because of Dudley's dieting last summer. Dudley had brightened enormously and seemed to get his appetite back. Harry continued to get another helping of potatoes while Petunia was distracted with the cake.  

            "Whoa, there, Duddems! Where did that appetite come from? Petunia, it appears you've won the lottery!" Petunia beamed.

            "Well, I did think that change would be good for Dudders," she began primly, but faltered at a pleading look from Dudley. "I mean to say that it would be good for _Dudley, _but still, I did hesitate to buy it." As Petunia stood to give Dudley a third slice of cake, Harry gulped down his last piece of bread and asked for a piece of cake as well. Aunt Petunia's lips twisted, but she served him a sliver that was about one fourth of Dudley's last piece.

            "Now, now, now," blustered Vernon. "Dudley here told me that you mixed up that cake yourself, Petunia. Don't try to be modest." 

            Harry was grinning despite himself. The first bite of cake tasted like heaven. The second was even better. It had been far too long since he'd had anything chocolate. He was sure that he'd had this cake before at Hogwarts. What was it called? Beside him, Dudley was wolfing down his third piece. Vernon was still on his first, taking his time, chuckling proudly at Dudley in between bites.

            "I try to be honest in all things, Vernon, you know that." Petunia returned, making Harry almost choke on his seventh, and last, bite. "But it was a cake from a mix. There was this very charming woman who was going door-to-door yesterday. Now, I don't usually buy such things, but I pride myself on knowing a good deal when I see one. " 

            Harry's fork dropped from nerveless fingers, clattering loudly to his plate. He grabbed up his napkin and spat the last mouthful of his cake into it, staring at Petunia with wide eyes. "You bought a mix from someone you'd never even seen before, someone who came to the door?"

            Vernon's face had turned red. "ATROCIOUS BEHAVIOR! Spitting out perfectly good food that's been cooked by my wife's own hands—"

            "Don't eat any more!" Harry broke in desperately, knocking Dudley's fork to the table. "Not another bite!" His stomach felt strange. His cousin, who'd eaten over three times as much as Harry had, was pale and trembling, but then he always looked that way when Harry was around. "Are you all right?" he asked Dudley nervously.

            "THIS IS RIDICULOUS!" Vernon yelled. "The entire world does not revolve around you and your dinner!" Harry felt a cramp seize his stomach and he struggled to his feet. 

            "You don't understand! They're trying to—" 

            "SIT DOWN!" Vernon bellowed as he drew himself to full height.

            "Don't feel good . . ." Dudley said uncertainly, his eyes anxiously searching every face for reassurance. Harry could give him none.

            "You're fine, Duddikins," Petunia said soothingly. "The nasty boy has just gone and put ideas in your head. Have some more cake."

            "I can't. I—I'm—" Dudley's words were cut off by an anguished wail as he clutched his stomach. 

            "DUDLEY!" Petunia screeched out in horror as she rushed to get to him. Harry felt light-headed as he watched Dudley writhe in pain, finally knocking over his chair in his spasms. Petunia went over with him, trying to keep him from hurting himself, getting him settled in her lap just in time to get the entire contents of his stomach on her pants. She gasped out a horrified shriek. 

            "How did you know there was something in that cake, boy?" Harry looked up to see Vernon's eyes narrowed at him in suspicion.  
  


            Harry clutched at his stomach. "I didn't know—wasn't sure—it smelled like something from school."

            "FROM SCHOOL??? YOU—YOU—"

             "Vernon, HELP ME!" Aunt Petunia had cradled Dudley's thrashing body to her and was trying to hold him still. Uncle Vernon jerked away to help as Dudley started convulsing in earnest. Vernon knelt at his feet, trying to grab onto the flailing legs. Petunia wailed as she held onto his shoulders. Dudley's body went perfectly rigid in between spasms, his eyes wide open in horror. 

            He was trying to say something, but only incoherent, wet sounds made it out. Then his eyes went somehow wider, his convulsions stopped and Harry held his breath. Something bad was going to happen. 

            Dudley bent forward and retched powerfully, sending spray across Vernon and all the way to the other end of the room. Part of it was blood. Aunt Petunia screamed. Vernon froze where he was, blinking rapidly.

            Harry backed away in horror, his own abdomen burning with empathy. This was his fault. They had gotten to Dudley while trying to get to him. Harry doubled over in pain. Dudley was going to die first—he'd eaten so much more of the cake—but Harry would get there just the same.

            The next minutes seemed to slow down incomprehensively, though Harry had no recollection of them later. Somehow Petunia and Vernon managed to get Dudley out to the car and Harry got himself into the den. Now he was leaning against the wall, watching Vernon bark instructions over the phone, giving the hospital advance warning. He slammed down the receiver and strode to the door, giving Harry just enough time to wonder vaguely if they expected him go to the hospital, too.

            "I guess I'll . . . just . . . stay here." 

            Vernon had been on the very cusp of leaving as Harry had spoken, but the soft words had an intense effect on the man. He froze and wheeled about slowly, as if just remembering Harry's presence. _"YOU!"_ His mouth screwed up into a snarl under the bristling mustache and he crossed the room in increasingly swift strides. Feeling weak and very young again, Harry backed away along the wall until he met the recliner and stumbled.

            _"YOU DID THIS TO DUDLEY!"_ Vernon raised his fist high.

            "I—I didn't! I swear!" Harry crouched and raised his own arms in defense.

            "LIAR!" He ducked the first swing. 

            "FREAK!" Barely blocked the backhand. 

            _"UNNATURAL!"_ The right hook laid into him like a sledgehammer. 

            Harry crashed sideways over the sharp-edged end table, taking a lamp and several pictures over with him. He landed in a series of scrapes and lesser impacts, aware of pain in many places at once and of Vernon standing over him, yelling something Harry couldn't understand. There was lots of spit raining down on him. As the feet finally walked away, he rolled over, groaning. 

            The door slammed shut and Harry Potter was left—injured, poisoned, alone. 

            And then—not for the first time—he thought that he really, _really_ hated Summer.

            Two thoughts floated to the surface of his clouded mind: Hedwig, Dumbledore. 

            "HEDWIG!" Harry yelled toward the stairs, trying to pull himself to his feet despite the searing pain in his abdomen, the gash in his back, and the loud ringing in his head. He couldn't get up. "Hedwig!" He said a little more faintly.

            From somewhere up there, he thought he heard a faint hooting. He started to yell again, then remembered the window would be shut. _Bugger!_ On his hands and knees now, he crawled forward until a blazing cramp laid him down low to the floor. He grimaced silently, trying not to think about the long, long, loooong crawl ahead up the stairs. He madly wished that his room was still the cupboard, only a few feet away. 

            He had to make it up those stairs somehow. If he stopped now, he might die before the Dursleys told anyone about him being here and in trouble. Actually, he realized with a start, they probably wouldn't tell anyone anyway. Petunia wouldn't think of it and Vernon would _not _tell out of spite. 

            So, Harry crawled painfully for the stairs. Nausea reared its ugly head again, but it was nothing compared to the pain. The pain was swallowing his senses whole and he knew it was only going to get worse from here. Harry steeled himself, screwing up his face. In a trice, he was on his feet, grabbing the banister and forcing his stumbling feet upward, doing his best to ignore the agony—in—every—single—movement.

            A hollow yell was wrested from him the moment he hit the landing—literally—on his side. For a moment, he couldn't move. The poison was eating away at his stomach; he could feel it; the pain was excruciating. Dudley was going to die from this, was probably already DOA. And Harry would die, too—alone—in pain. _Death by chocolate._ Oh, how Tom would be gloating—

            Harry rolled in agony. This was what Tom had felt so triumphant about—the cake mix. Tom had sent the poison to kill him; he knew Harry would die. And the prophecy would be fulfilled. ". . . for neither can live while the other dies . . ."

            _"No!"_ Harry felt new determination inflame him, pushing him past the pain. He crawled and fell; then he scraped by on the carpet on his elbows, into the room where Hedwig was flapping and hooting cacophonously, her amber eyes—no, wait. It wasn't Hedwig. The world tilted under him. He'd sent Hedwig off and she hadn't returned. His thoughts were scattered. Whose owl was that—?

            The little owl was frantically hooting, bouncing up off the windowsill with each sound. It was Pig, Ron's owl, and he seemed to be expecting some sort of response. "I'm fine," Harry gasped from where he lay, "just . . . catching my breath." 

            As he shuddered with pain, a quiet noise from below arrested his attention. Someone was knocking on the front door softly. The door clicked open. Vernon hadn't locked it. Harry moaned and heard a soft voice at the same time. In a flash, Harry understood. They were coming for him now—the Death Eaters. He wouldn't die alone—no, of course not. They would take him when he was sick and unable to defend himself, take him to Tom where he would be killed much, much less mercifully. It was all clear. 

            The pain in his gut was like hot knives impaling him over and over again. Nausea rolled in waves. He could barely think; he couldn't fight. They had planned this well. But he reached up one hand and punched out words through gritted teeth. "Accio wand!" It flew into his grip. Harry grasped it tightly and used his other hand to pull himself up on the desk. He leaned heavily on it, slowly righting himself. The pain wouldn't allow him to stand up straight, and he was seconds from retching, but somehow, he'd gotten to his feet. 

            The owl was flying now, chattering a befuddling cloud of noise around Harry. 

            "Go to Ron, Pig," he whispered. Pig buzzed even closer and then zipped out the window. Harry wondered oddly what the letter had said, and then turned his face back toward the bedroom door. Footsteps were ascending the stairs.

            Harry stretched out his wand hand and used the desk for leverage with the other. Calm settled over him. He would go down fighting. He would meet his end as bravely as Sirius had, if not with as much gaiety. Raising his wand to eye level, masking the pain, he fixed a spell in his mind and let it play on his lips along with a small smile. The waiting was over. His doom was here.

            Then—with a light tread—Remus Lupin appeared at the door. 

******

Coming Soon: _Chapter 4- A Private Room_

****

_Will the Death Eaters show up?_

_Will Harry go down fighting?_

_Will Harry stay up fighting?___


	4. A Private Room

_Disclaimer: J.K. Rowling and her wonderful creation, including its characters, places, and things belong to her and her alone. Being inspired, and being bereft of book six, I do nothing but emulate and elaborate. This is not intended to steal from her work, or for any monetary benefit._

**_Ch. 4- A Private Room_**

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*

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            Lupin's face paled. "Harry?"

            Harry was frozen, agony searing the inside of his body. If he so much as moved a muscle, he would collapse. He couldn't utter a syllable. He just stared with agonized features at his friend and professor.

            "My lord, Harry, what happened?" Remus stepped closer, but stopped at a choking noise from Harry, who managed to force out some words at last.

            "Marauder's . . . Map. Password . . . ."

            "I solemnly swear that I am up to no good," Remus rushed out the words.

            Harry nodded once, started to lower his wand arm, and collapsed. Somehow Remus was under him before his head hit the floor. "Harry--what?"

            "Poison . . . cake. Hospital."

            Remus stared for a long moment with wide eyes, probably wondering at Harry's inability to speak coherently, then stood abruptly, dumping Harry's head on the floor. Harry curled up around his stomach, trying to fight the convulsions taking him. He lost the fight, retched miserably and gave up most of his dinner. There was far too much blood mixed in it, not that he truly cared at the moment.  

            "Scourgify!" Remus was back by his side, cleaning it away and picking Harry's rigid body up under the legs and back with a grunt. He turned sideways to exit the door, and they were heading toward the stairs before Harry realized Remus had on the Invisibility Cloak. "Obscurnamenta!" The cloak swirled outward, sealing at the top above Remus's head, cascading around them both. The world disappeared for Harry, who felt as if he were spinning madly in a hellish, muffled blankness. Remus held him firmly to his chest, painfully so, as he walked, breathing hard, muttering under his breath. Eventually Harry caught his words.

            "…made large enough. Just sit tight and—Wait . . ." Remus had frozen. Harry looked up to see him staring dead ahead. "Hush. Death Eaters." Harry screwed his eyes up tight and concentrated on quieting his ragged breathing. His body had him convinced; he was dying; the only thing he could do was keep silent so that Remus didn't get killed as well.

            "Upstairs, to the right," a voice barked out below them, making Harry jump. The sudden movement squeezed his stomach muscles and sent him into pained oblivion . . . floating in white . . . pure white, while the world jostled somewhere nearby . . . .

            Voices shouted words stretched almost out of meaning.

            _"Stuuuuuuuupeffffy!"_

_            "Luuumossss! Aaaaavadddaaaaaaaaaaa Ke--" _

_            "Stupefffy!"_

            As his hearing returned to normal, the hot, muffled darkness descended again. They were moving. Remus was still carrying him, and they were outside on the grass, cutting across a neighbor's yard. That was good, but unfortunately, Harry's stomach was about to unload itself again. He choked out a warning and Remus bent them both over someone's garden. Harry was coherent enough to realize that the picture from far away must be funny, vomit projecting out of nowhere. But he was too woozy to care, as long as it wasn't Death Eaters watching.

            His throat burned; his head pounded; the cramping seemed somehow—impossibly—more painful as they lurched forward. They were inside Mrs. Figg's house, barging in without knocking, heading straight for the Floo. Mrs. Figg was there, talking frantically to the invisible them.

            "Oh, Remus, is Harry alright? What was wrong with Dud—"

            "No—poisoned. Please excuse us." Remus dropped the cloak and grabbed some floo powder. "Hogwarts Infirmary!" Remus yelled the last part loud enough to send Harry's consciousness reeling. The blackness spun around him until it finally enveloped him. 

******

            _"Ennervate!"___

            Harry's eyes shot open to a world shaking with pain. Someone was in his face. His eyes were drawn past, to the bustle of activity beyond, lots of people gasping and halting, staring at him . . . .

            "Potter, drink this immediately." 

            Harry pulled his eyes back to the someone, willing his eyes to work correctly, sure this was a nightmare. It had to be—

            "Perhaps I should rephrase my statement, if your brain is that addled. Drink the potion or I will be forced to dock Griffindor one hundred and fifty points for your arrogant stubbornness!" Harry's eyes widened as Professor Severus Snape's face came into focus. Harry opened his mouth to speak, but only a pained gasp came out. "Drink, foolish boy!" A vial was put up to his lips and a smooth liquid slid inside his mouth and tickled the top of his throat, where it choked him in new agony. He jerked his hands to grasp at his throat only to find them bound at his sides. He struggled violently until Snape pulled the vial away.

            "Don't waste it!" He snapped. "This is the only thing that will stop the poison from eroding out your stomach. But then again, perhaps you would prefer to let die the only hope of the wizarding world because you mistrust me?" Harry felt lost in the condescending black eyes. Why was he restrained if he was safe? He turned his head away and let the darkness spin around him, consumed with pain.

            "Mr. Potter," said Madame Pomfrey's familiarly crisp voice from nearby. "The blisters in your throat are making it hurt badly; we understand. But you must drink it if you want to have any vitals left to patch together once the pain is gone!" She put a cool hand on his bruised cheek. "Drink the potion, Harry."

            Harry shuddered and opened his mouth a little. The vial tipped and he reluctantly swallowed hot fire. Tears streamed out of his eyes but he didn't make a sound. He was digging his own grave. He was going to die; why couldn't they just leave him alone? 

            "That's it, Harry, brave boy." Remus' voice sounded strained. Finally the potion was done. The sharpness of the pain in his abdomen lessened; the burning faded. Harry sighed and grimaced anew. The numbness in his stomach threw the pain in his throat into sharper relief.  

            "Now, if you men will leave me for a moment, I need to examine Mr. Potter's other injuries. Severus, you will have more in an hour, I believe?"  
  


            "Indeed. If Potter is to survive, we will need to heal and rebuild the lining of his stomach slowly with recurring doses. I will return."

            "Thank you, Severus," Madame Pomfrey waved a wand over Harry's wrists to free them. "If it had not been for your stock of potions, I fear we would have been delivering very different news to the world today." Harry sunk farther into the bed. The last thing he wanted was the whole wizarding world worrying about him.

            "Harry," Remus stepped up beside the bed with a warm smile that wrinkled the corners of his eyes, bending over just slightly until Harry's eyes focused on him. "Willing to go to any lengths to get out of Occlumency, aren't you? I'm afraid your tactics won't work, though. We'll start up next week if you're up to it. Now, I'm off to tell the Order to cancel the dirge." Lupin looked startled as Harry shook his head as vehemently as possible. "What is it, Harry?" Harry opened his mouth to talk, then grimaced as the pain flared up with the effort. He settled for mouthing the word, _no._

            "You don't want me to . . . ah. You don't want me to tell anyone about the poisoning. Is that it?" Harry nodded. Lupin regarded him gravely. "Well, that's your prerogative. But I believe Arabella would have contacted the Order as soon as we left, most likely starting at the Weasley household. Now that Fred and George are in the Order, your friends may have found out as a matter of course. Beyond that, I believe we may be able to keep it quiet."

            Harry nodded, realizing the uselessness of trying to fight it all. The last thing he wanted was for anyone to spend anymore time trying to protect him, but then how else would he get a chance at Tom? He half wished the poison had worked. Then, for better or worse, it would all be over. Sorrow came in a deluge as Madame Pomfrey pushed Remus out of the ward. 

            "Goodbye, Harry! I'll return as soon as I can, and we'll talk about that new coif of yours!" Harry started to smile, but suddenly had to close his eyes as they began to sting uncomfortably. Pomfrey tut-tutted her way back to the bed and stood over him for a moment. Harry knew she was waving her wand, checking him tip to toe.

            "Just as I suspected, Mr. Potter. Let's turn you over, now." Harry felt a gentle tug upwards until he was lifted off the bed. His body rotated until he was facing the bed, feeling quite dizzy. He managed to turn his head to avoid smothering as the spell laid him down. Then the fabric of his shirt was cut away and Pomfrey fussed about his wounds. She wanted to know how it happened, but Harry couldn't speak. He shrugged slightly. 

            "Well, we'll hear about that soon enough." She muttered something about Muggles as she put a very cold, creamy salve on his back that immediately took away the pain of the gash and small scratches. She rubbed a warmer ointment into his muscles, which for some reason made Harry feel flushed all over. Then she came around to the side and placed another bit of ointment on the bruised cheek. The warm tingle on his skin along with its fresh scent soothed him and his eyes closed. He drifted off without another thought. 

******

            Waking was not pleasant. 

            Harry had had vague, disturbing dreams of Severus Snape forcing liquid down his throat and threatening everything from expulsion to the Cruciatus when he refused it. Always, the burning in his throat was made worse when he eventually gave in and sputtered it down, but the agony in his stomach was blessedly relieved. 

            Upon waking this time, however, his insides burned with the feeling of raw flesh too near a blazing fire. He must have slept, since he had dreamed, but he felt no better for the rest. Quick, decisive footsteps neared and Harry immediately tensed. His own body's reaction told him who it was.

            Severus Snape stopped short at the sight of Harry awake. "What a pity. I was so looking forward to forcing this potion down your throat again. Any chance you might still gag and shout interesting accusations anyway, just to be engaging?" Harry worked up enough energy to scowl. He knew without trying that he couldn't speak over the blisters in his throat. "You know," Snape continued, walking over to the bed and taking a vial out of his pocket, "it's unlikely that I'll ever have the chance of speaking to you uninterrupted again, so let me just forge ahead and tell you all the things no one else will ever tell you. 

            "Just because you're the One in the prophecy doesn't mean that you're the only one who is capable of it. That is ludicrous. You are simply too brazen, reckless and idiotic to be the best choice, but there's nothing we can do about it now." Harry made a mental note to tell Snape later that he agreed with him completely. 

            "Please remember that others around you are risking their lives every day for the Light, even in the midst of darkness. This is the kind of pain they risk every day. Now, open up." Harry found that he couldn't keep his eyes focused on someone that close to him, so he opened his mouth for the angry, dark, blurry blob and waited. 

            The smooth liquid seared his throat so that he jerked and scratched at the bed sheets. It was an effort to keep his mouth open, to keep his throat swallowing. Tears rolled down his cheeks and only the presence of Snape kept him from crying out. After it was over, he crumpled on his side and let the waves of pain roll over him, even as the calm warmth settled in his stomach. He could taste blood at the back of his throat.

            "There. Now, that wasn't so bad, was it?" Harry buried his face in the mattress and fought to hold back a moan. "Potter, you must keep it all in perspective. If the Dark Lord ever gets hold of you, he will have much worse in store. I assure you." Harry was breaking out in a sweat. His mouth was watering; he felt nauseous. "Potter?" He groaned, rolling over onto his knees to escape the feeling, burying his face into the mattress when it didn't seem to help. He rocked slightly, consumed with the effort it took to not vomit. 

            "Pomfrey! Quickly! Bring the Heroditia pack." Snape bent over to whisper harshly in Harry's ear as he rocked. "Don't you jeopardize all my work! If you vomit even once, the muscle contraction will tear the healing tissue apart. It will send acid up your throat and widen those fissures so that no medicine can be introduced where you need it! Do you hear me?" Harry nodded feverishly, no longer caring whether he was working with or against the Potions Professor. He had to keep the medicine down.

            A small, rectangular pillow was whisked into place beneath his forehead. As Harry continued to rock in small pulses, the gentle smell of mint mixed with lemon invaded his senses. Something else was there, something soothing that he couldn't identify. It seemed stronger than any fragrance he'd smelled before, yet it was light and airy. Breathing deeply, Harry stilled and rolled to his side. He breathed again deeply and the fragrance continued to infuse his being, calming him. His muscles started to relax.

            "Thank all that's good in this world," Pomfrey murmured above him.

            "Indeed," came a sharper voice that seemed almost gentle now.

            Harry welcomed sleep again, his pain a far-distant sensation.

******

            Again, he had dreams of agony and potions, but the pain seemed more manageable now. Harry slept well in between doses, and woke eventually to find himself alone again. His mind was cottony and vague. He had no idea how long he'd been here. He was dressed in soft navy pajamas that he had no memory of putting on. He hoped no one else had dressed him. Thoughts trickled through his mind uneasily, getting blocked and moved aside so often that he finally gave up. The ceiling was far away, but the stone was interestingly carved, and he found himself picturing various things in its pitted architecture.

            "Ah, Harry, you are awake," a warm voice came from beside him. Harry started, turning his head to see Dumbledore. He hadn't heard the headmaster come in. Had he fallen asleep? Harry started to speak, then grimaced at the automatic pain. "No talking yet, I'm afraid," Dumbledore insisted. "Just a nod will have to suffice for now." Harry nodded slightly, though that motion hurt his throat as well. Pain was blooming now, from many different places, though his stomach was still pleasantly numb. "How are you feeling? A bit pained, still?" Harry gave a nod. 

            "Well, that's to be expected. You've barely escaped a most painful death. Severus has drawn you back from the jaws of death most capably. Oh, yes, don't look so surprised. Though the two of you mix as well as oil and water, he did not hesitate to step in and treat you. For something like this, his forcefulness comes in quite handy. And it seems that he has dealt with poison of this kind before, though I find that it often pays not to ask questions of Severus in this vein. We are just thankful he knew of its effects."

            Harry swallowed and felt as if a knife had been scraped down his throat. "Ah, that would be your throat again, I imagine?" Harry gave a slight nod. "Yes, Severus explained that—"

            "Now, Headmaster, don't go doing my job for me," came Pomfrey's firm voice from the direction of her office as her footfalls echoed in their direction. She came to stand over Harry, smiling herself into wrinkles. "How is my favorite patient?" Harry tried to smile back, surprised at her epithet. "Well, you are my favorite, you know. You're just too stubborn to let them get you. I'm sure I ought to set aside a private room for you with some of the comforts of home," she said briskly. Harry couldn't protest that the ward was actually a good deal more comfortable than his home. "Now, on to the medicinal side of the matter: your stomach is recovering nicely, Potter. It will be a few days before you can eat normal food again, but I still say that's better than a lifetime of weak gruel." Harry agreed with widened eyes. 

            "As do I, Madame Pomfrey." Dumbledore looked over at Harry with a twinkle in his eyes. "Imagine a world with no more pumpkin pasties."

            "As for your throat, it will be no pumpkin pasties for you until we get those blisters healed up. The poison burned the tissue severely on the way back up, and I'm afraid the potion Professor Snape concocted for your innards did nothing to alleviate the burn. In fact, it aggravated it excessively because we had to give it every hour on the hour. But now that your stomach is settled a bit, we'll cut back the doses and let it heal. I believe Severus is off mixing that special potion right now. Once the blisters crust over, then we'll be able to heal them as well."

            Harry nodded slightly and let his head fall to the side. He felt nauseous after all the talk of burns and blisters and innards.

            "You must be exhausted, Harry," Dumbledore spoke up quietly. "Just relax. You are safe here, actually a bit safer here than you were at home. Before you go back to Privet Drive, we will be setting up additional food wards, this time covering any food that comes into the home, even a mix whose ingredients have not been activated. That was an oversight on my part that almost . . . cost us everything." 

            There were tears in the blue eyes as he bent over and touched Harry's cheek gently. "And that bruise . . . ." Harry watched as the twinkle left the Headmaster's eyes. "We shall certainly have to do something about that, now, won't we?" Harry opened his mouth to speak, and then stopped himself. Instead, he mouthed the words, _The Dursleys?_

             "Oh, forgive me, my boy. I had forgotten that you would care about their well-being. Dudley would have almost certainly died had not Aurors stopped the Dursleys short of the hospital and taken them some place else to be treated by a measure of the same potion Severus gave you. Dudley has had a miserable time of it, being a bit worse off than you were. His throat has swollen shut once or twice and breathing was a bit of a problem. But I think he's settled down now." 

            Dumbledore sighed. "Petunia and Vernon seem determined to blame you for this, though it's not your fault at all, of course. They are rather angry. I'm afraid it will be necessary to deprive them of this memory before we return them to Privet Drive. And Vernon's work . . . well, we will have to Obliviate a few memories there as well since he has missed a few days' work. 

            "And, of course, you are probably wondering why I didn't send word by Hedwig that Professor Lupin was safe before all of this happened?" Harry nodded.      "It's a simple reason, really, though I am sorry for the worry it must have caused you. Your message via Hedwig did not reach Hogwarts safely. Hedwig arrived in a quite a state, mauled by some unknown assailant. As a result we kept her here for care and Fawkes was sent to the Order to let them know of the breech in safety. 

            "Now, do not fear for Hedwig. She has recovered almost completely. But if the purpose of your enemies was to isolate you in a time of distress, I fear they were successful. With the skies being patrolled, I was afraid to send any other owls. Had Fawkes not been terribly busy, I would have sent him, but with the additional knowledge that Lupin was to appear safely at your home Friday night, the risk seemed unnecessary. I had hoped you would remember my earlier warnings about the visions, and you did, dear boy. Well done." Harry could not manage a smile. Dumbledore patted his arm sadly.

            "A hornet's nest has been stirred up, and we are striving hourly to keep as many people from getting stung as we can." He raised his eyebrows. "I've never seen the Order quite this motivated before. You are loved, my boy. So sit tight and get well. We'll put things to right."

            Harry nodded once and then watched Dumbledore move away with mixed feelings—guilt prevailing. Hedwig had been attacked; Dudley poisoned; the Order stirred. All of this was happening because of him, just like Sirius' death. If there was anything he could do to prevent another person from getting hurt because of him, he'd do it in a heart beat. 

            And yeah, maybe he should worry what the cost might be, but right now, he honestly didn't care.

******

**_Coming Soon—  
Chapt._****_ 5: Well, it was only to be expected . . ._**_  
  
Enough with the recovery! Enough with the potions!  
Tom is growing impatient._


	5. Well, it was only to be expected

_Disclaimer: J.K. Rowling and her wonderful creation, including its characters, places, and things belong to her and her alone. Being inspired, and being bereft of book six, I do nothing but emulate and elaborate. This is not intended to steal from her work, or for any monetary benefit.  
  
AN: Thanks for the reviews! How motivating they are!_  
  


  
Ch. 5- Well, it was only to be expected . . .

*

*

*

  
  
Three days of sleep and recovery followed, passing slowly and uneventfully, broken up only by short stretches of much-needed sleep. Harry couldn't take Dreamless Sleep Potion because of his throat and his sleep remained uneasy and broken by nightmares. But there was nothing from Tom during that time, and Dumbledore said that he was probably waiting to discover if his plan had deprived the world of Harry Potter or not.  
  
The first day was monopolized by Snape's hints that the Order might let Harry "die" in the public eye by leaking the story of the poisoning to the press with a few pictures, then hide him with transfigured looks somewhere else. According to Snape, this would keep Harry safe from further attack, and give him the advantage of surprise when he decided to attack Tom.  
  
Harry panicked as he considered the ramifications of having no contact with anyone who knew him in the wizarding world or in the muggle world. He would be lost-truly nobody. But by nightfall, Dumbledore deemed the demoralization that would come from the announcement of Harry's death was too dangerous for serious consideration, plus the fact that Harry would never be safer than he would at Privet Drive. If he was divested of his home with his Aunt, he would be ripe pickings for anyone that did discover his whereabouts. And so, no "death."  
  
Harry heard the outcome of this argument with relief and again, guilt. So much depended upon his wellbeing and future. Why?  
  
Hedwig was brought in for a few hours the second day, and was happy to see him, hooting softly and nipping at his hair. Harry was amazed to see no sign of her previous injuries. The thought of her being attacked made him angry, which made his stomach hurt worse. Thus it was that his time with her was mostly spent in quiet meditation, specifically not thinking of his guilt or of Tom's vindictiveness. He sat and stroked her feathers, practicing loving thoughts, which she somehow made easier by her presence. He and Hedwig spent several quiet hours together before she was taken back to the owlery, where she could exercise and stay on her strict diet.  
  
On the third day, the blisters in Harry's throat had healed enough for a potion to be taken that finished off the effects of the poison. He felt immediately less lethargic and the pain was gone in a matter of hours. His first solid food in three days was ample cause for celebration, even though he had another difficult time keeping it down.  
  
The main thing that worried him now was a letter he'd gotten from Ginny.

  
  
_ Dear Harry,  
  
Are you all right? We're still a bit in shock here, though it's much better to know what happened than not to. When Pig came back in such a hysteric state with Ron's letter, we didn't know what to think. Ron stomped off in a huff, thinking you were refusing to even read his letters now; Mum was in hysterics, thinking something was wrong; the twins were leaping around the room, trying in vain to get Pig to settle down. It was a madhouse! Right about then, Arabella Figg called for Dad, and Mum talked to her in private. We knew something must be wrong, and Ron felt terrible for thinking the worst of you.  
  
Anyway, we were so relieved to hear that Lupin got you to Hogwarts in time. The whole thing must have been horrible! The only thing I've found to be glad about is that the fat pig Dursley got it worse than you did. Serves him right for being such a glutton!  
  
Fred and George spent some time guarding the Dursleys yesterday (did you know they were in the Order now?)(Fred and George, of course, not the Dursleys!) and George actually Stupefied the whole lot of them! I thought you'd be chuffed about that. Fred said he did nothing to stop George because they deserved it. See, Vernon had said something about knocking you clear across the room again as soon as he saw you Then Petunia (I used to like those flowers) starts in about locking you in the cupboard where you belong and George shut them both up only to have Dudley start bawling hysterically. So, George shut him up, too.  
  
Pity. ( I mean, pity I couldn't have been there to help, but then my hexes would have done more lasting damage.)  
  
George got a rip-roaring lecture from Mum, but he says he's glad he did it, anyway. I've seen the two of them sneaking about a bit, and I wonder if they're planning more revenge on the Dursleys for you. They were pretty angry and you know what that means. Keep your eyes open when you get home; you never know with the two of them around.  
  
Now, it goes without saying that I'm relieved you're okay. But I had to owl Hermione for you because I don't think you're thinking straight. Lupin told us not to tell anyone else, but she would want to know that you've been hurt, Harry.  
  
Also, beware Ron! You know how he is. He's been sick with worry, pacing a groove in the floor over you, but that doesn't keep him from being highly irate about the not-telling thing. I'm trying to get him to blow off steam and interjecting lots of sensible things about how you've been mostly unconscious and ill too much to make sense right now, but I'm afraid he's saving up some choice words for you. It's only because he cares. Oh, and because he's bonkers over Hermione. (You know that, right?)  
  
Now then, you rest and relax. Don't worry about the Dursleys. They're being watched even more carefully now.  
  
If anything else happens, I think you may have a Weasley bodyguard stationed there at all times, at least if Mum has her way. At any rate, we'll see you on your birthday, if not before. And don't worry-we won't bake a chocolate cake.  
  
Cheers,  
Ginny_

_  
_  
Harry was smiling when he finished the letter, though the part about owling Hermione had him rubbing at his forehead. Getting everyone more upset wasn't a good idea right now. When people get upset, they do stupid things. He learned that last year. Hermione had enough to deal with right now without worrying more about him. Everybody did.  
  
It sounded like the Order was busy trying to predict Tom's next move. Harry was glad, for once, that he was out of the center of it. Right now, he couldn't keep his mind focused on anything but getting back to Privet Drive and getting back into shape physically. He could never fight Voldemort like this. Of course, it was on the tip of his tongue to beg Dumbledore to stay at Hogwarts and let him train here under their veil of magic, but the possibility that Harry might bring danger to the school by his presence was a horrid thought, so he didn't even ask.  
  
He wrote a short note back to Ginny, assuring her that he was fine and telling her to thank George for him-the visualization of the Dursleys Stupefied had done him a world of good. He also asked her to mention to Ron that he was sorry for keeping it from them, but he knew it wouldn't do any good. Ginny was right. He was going to have to wait until Ron was good and ready to blow, and then weather the storm. He ate a light dinner and fell asleep with the strange feeling of a full stomach.  
  
Late the next morning after Harry dressed, Pomfrey finally dismissed him from the ward with a large bottle of potion for any stomach upsets and an even larger bottle of Dreamless Sleep Potion. She said he wanted plumping up a bit and about a week's worth of sleep, but should be tip-top in no time. Harry walked to Dumbledore's office on his own, feeling relieved that no one had felt the need to babysit him on the way. Maybe they had been listening after all.  
  
The password was chocolate-covered marshmallow dragons, which were Dumbledore's favorite treat at the moment. Harry let the staircase ride him up this time, since he felt a bit winded and weak, much to his disgust.  
  
"Come in, Harry," the headmaster called out. "Is it time to let you go already?" Harry entered to find the old man seated behind his desk as usual, but with an inordinate amount of paper and parchment littering his desk.  
  
"Yes, sir. I reckon I need to get back. The Dursleys are already there?"  
  
"Yes, indeed. They are back, as healthy as can be expected, and Obliviated entirely. Tonks and Kingsley had the last watch, and they said that despite a lot of memory work, the Dursleys' dislike for you has moved into the category of active hatred."  
  
Harry shrugged. "Wasn't much of a move, I'm sure."  
  
"Yes, well, Mad-Eye will be warning them again of the necessity of your safety as well as the inappropriateness of certain behavior toward you." Harry studied the arm of the chair, flushing at this sudden reminder that Vernon's penchant for taking a swing at him had been discovered.  
  
"How much longer?"  
  
Dumbledore didn't pretend to misunderstand. "Four weeks, Harry. After that, you will go to the Weasleys for two weeks of relaxation before the school year. I imagine that should help your frame of mind." Harry grinned despite himself. "Now, let me caution you: there are but a few Order members who know of the Prophecy. I have never felt comfortable letting many people know of your destiny. It seems such a fragile thing and I never know if I'm helping it along or destroying your chances. In the same vein, I would not advise you to tell many people."  
  
"I haven't told anyone," Harry spoke up firmly. "And I don't intend to." He vehemently resented the fact that Snape knew, but chose to keep that silent.  
  
"However, I want you to remember that your friends are sometimes your strength, Harry. If they do not know of the weight you are carrying-"  
  
"—then they won't worry as much. Or try to prevent me from fulfilling it when I need to," Harry interrupted.  
  
"That is one way to look at it. But then again, without the benefit of your friends' faith and love, you would not have made it this far. You certainly wouldn't have made it out of the Ministry alive. You need them, Harry, whether you want to recognize that or not." Harry dropped his gaze again. He wouldn't be forced into using his friends; he had to keep them safe. The silence stretched on in the room until Dumbledore filled it with a sigh.  
  
"I cannot change your mind, Harry, but please keep my words in your thoughts." Harry nodded. "Now, you will be portkeying directly to Arabella's house, where Hedwig is already waiting. She is now wearing a thin neckband which will afford her some extra protection when she is sent out, but do not use her often. If you have another vision, I would suggest that she remain at home. I will send Fawkes to you every three days to check on you, if that is amenable?" Harry nodded reluctantly. "Now then, this marshmallow dragon will activate in ten seconds. Then you may eat it." The small chocolate-covered treat flew over to Harry with jerky, sticky movements and landed in his outstretched hand. It immediately started to preen its delicate wings. "What a way to get rid of evidence, hmm?"  
  
"Thank you. Sir. And I meant what I said about being sorry for-"  
  
And then the tug just behind his navel began, even as Dumbledore said, "All is forgiven, Harry. Keep well . . . ."  
  
******  
  
Harry arrived in Arabella Figg's sitting room at noon, patently ignoring the nauseating memories from the last time he had portkeyed. It was quiet and dark and the only things moving about were Mrs. Figg's cats. He counted five in the space between the couch and coffee table. He stopped counting at eleven. A ruffle of feathers and a dismayed hooting caught his attention.  
  
"Hedwig?"  
  
Harry turned to see her flying directly at him. In a swish of feathers she landed on the arm he held out for her, hooting indignantly. "Ouch. Have the cats been bothering you? Sorry about that." Harry smoothed the feathers under her chin briefly, feeling the cool metal fastened there before walking to the fourier.  
  
"Mrs. Figg?" Hearing no answer, Harry trudged over to the door. It creaked open and the view of Privet Drive was before him, bathed in a soft, sunlit glow. The neighborhood was livelier than it had been when he left. It seemed to be lawnmowing day, and several yards were being attended to.  
  
"Fly home, girl. I'll be right there." Harry lifted his arm for Hedwig to take off, figuring that walking down the street with an owl on his arm would not be exactly inconspicuous. She swept her powerful wings back and forth, rising slowly and taking care not to dig into Harry's arm. Thankfully, no one looked their way. Harry shoved his hands in his pockets and headed across the street, very aware of the wand in his back pocket. His eyes moved around the street warily, but there was nothing amiss.  
  
Reaching Number Four, he was surprised to see Alastor Moody open the door. Moody pulled back in surprise. "Potter," he growled. "Yer early. We were just talkin' things over with yer guardians here." The door opened a bit more to show Arabella Figg with a set expression on her face. She smiled when she saw Harry.  
  
"Glad you're up and around again. Feel terribly guilty about that saleswoman. Actually bought something from her, too. She was good, real good." She shook her head and walked past Harry. "We'll keep better watch from now on. That you can depend on." She waved once and walked on.  
  
Alastor patted Harry's shoulder. "Constant vigilance!" Harry had been expecting that, but he still jumped as the Auror barked it in his ear. Alastor followed behind Arabella, keeping his limp to a minimum and his face down. He still looked strange enough to pull looks from the neighbors; Harry hoped Petunia was watching.  
  
As the two reached Arabella's house safely, Harry turned to go inside, feeling the walls close in around him again. He shut the door behind him, curbing a bitter urge to say, "Mom, Dad, I'm home!"  
  
Through the hallway doors, he could see Petunia sitting rigidly at the kitchen table, her eyes focused on something he couldn't see. Her face was blank. Harry cleared his throat and she jerked, her head turning his way. Her expression hardened.  
  
"I'm home," he ventured. "I guess I'll go upstairs."  
  
"Have you eaten?" she asked flatly.  
  
"Well . . . no, not actually," he admitted. "But I'm not-"  
  
"I'll bring something up," she interrupted and stood briskly. Harry watched until she disappeared out of sight and then headed for the stairs. He shuddered to remember what he'd felt like the last time he'd gone up these stairs. Rounding the corner, Harry saw Dudley's door open. Dudley. Harry's stomach dropped with a thump. Dudley had been hurt badly-worse than he had. Had he been forgetting it on purpose?  
  
Harry fought with himself only briefly before walking to Dudley's door. He hesitated, then stepped inside. Dudley lay on his bed on top of the disheveled spread, staring at nothing. When he saw Harry, he jumped up and stood shivering at attention.  
  
Dudley looked terrible. His face was pasty-white and swollen, like he'd had an allergic reaction. His hair stood on end, as if he'd been running his hands through it compulsively. Though he'd lost even more weight, the look on his face startled Harry the most. A horror had set in, a blankness in his light eyes that spoke of fear of the unknown, fear of something so terrible that he couldn't even force himself to remember it.  
  
Harry opened his mouth to speak and then realized he had no idea what to say. He couldn't apologize to Dudley for something Dudley couldn't even remember happening. There was no point, and it would probably only frighten him worse.  
  
"I'm sorry," Harry began and paused as Dudley jumped at the sound of his voice.  
  
"Do you want something? Take it. You can take anything you like. Do you want my telly? How about my Z-box? I have lots of games. Try it!" He darted forward and started to gather things for Harry.  
  
"No, no, Dudley. Leave it alone. I don't-I didn't come to get anything. I wanted to apologize."  
  
Dudley stopped scrambling and looked up from where he knelt. "Apologize? For what?"  
  
"For . . . being so unfriendly and callous this summer. It's obvious that you . . . have had problems with what happened last summer, and I should have helped you more. So, there. I'm sorry." Dudley's mouth had dropped open during the speech and stayed open. Harry started to feel uncomfortable. "Is there anything you need to say to me?"  
  
Dudley finally shut his mouth and shook his head timorously.  
  
"Well, then, I guess that's it. Thanks." Harry smiled, nodded once and then backed out, feeling instinctively that he shouldn't make any sudden moves that frightened the boy any further. "I'll be in my room if you need to talk." He closed the door on the way out.  
  
Dudley Dursley would never be the same again.  
  
******  
  
Actually, nothing was ever the same again in the Dursley household. Everyone was acting like a caricature of themselves, as if someone had taken the originals and replaced them with amateur actors. Vernon blew his top quicker, if that was possible, and yelled even louder. At least, he hadn't yet come near enough to Harry to aim a blow at him, which was an improvement.  
  
Another improvement came in the form of Dudley. Whereas before he would allow his father to rail at Harry and silently approve, now Dudley feared to let Harry be angered. He would intervene on Harry's behalf, which always left Vernon flummoxed and frustrated, since he wouldn't allow himself to yell at Dudley. Occasionally, Dudley would leave gifts on Harry's bed, as if he were some violent god that must be appeased. Harry would return the gifts unless it was food, which, as it was usually sweets, he would find himself eating in the long afternoon.  
  
It wasn't as if he wasn't being fed. But Petunia had become obsessive about meals. She only bought groceries from a store she trusted on certain delivery days, and she washed anything fresh at least three times before cooking it. She boiled almost everything and cooked in premeasured amounts. Often, they would come to the end of a bland meal with no one full, but Vernon and Dudley falling all over themselves to reassure Petunia she did a good job before the tears could start. Apparently, the instinctual fear from the poisoning could not be gotten rid of by a simple memory wipe.  
  
What was a bit more stressful was the state of mind among Harry's friends. Hermione couldn't decide between being grateful he was alive or livid that he hadn't wanted her to be told of the poisoning. She was settling for mostly livid and he had several owls from her in the first three days back, detailing his wrongs and laying out a plan for handling such happenings in the future. She seemed to think he owed it to them to tell them if his back so much as itched in a strange way.  
  
Maybe she wouldn't have gotten so angry if Harry hadn't written back to tell her that obviously she didn't know him as well as she thought she did, because poison or no, there was no way on earth that he could stand this much scrutiny.

  
  
_ As if the bloody Order wasn't bad enough!  
_  
  


Her next two letters were frosty and indifferent, signed:  
  
  
__

_ Your "friend,"  
Hermione Granger_  
  
  


Ginny wrote again and mentioned that Ron was still up a pole over the events as well. Harry felt very misused by this point and refused to write Ron for almost a week, wanting nothing more than to remind his friends that he'd just been almost killed again and could they please be a bit more supportive. When he finally broke down and wrote an apology, Ron didn't respond at all. Harry began to get that dead feeling he'd had during his fourth year when Ron wasn't speaking to him. Terrible feeling, that.  
  
But then again, he kept asking himself, wasn't this what he wanted? To cut ties so that all of them would stay safe? Let them be mad. That way, they wouldn't risk their lives for him the next time Tom decided to make a move. But some voice in the back of his mind argued back: They won't stop caring. It won't stop them. Well, maybe not, he argued with himself, but if they're not with me when I have to fight because they're mad at me, then they stay safe.  
  
In the end, Harry wrote to Neville and Luna to explain the poisoning to them, but swearing them to secrecy, and sent off the owl at sunset on the day of his Occlumency lesson. Hopefully, this one would go much better. But the way Vernon was glaring at Harry that night as he came to the dinner table, it wasn't looking promising.  
  
"Boy! That hair—" he began.  
  
"Looks really cool," interrupted Dudley, which was his standard rebuttal for these conversations.  
  
"I don't care what you think," snapped back Vernon, startling everyone. He'd apparently gotten used to Dudley's interference and decided to press on, anyway. "That boy looks like a hoodlum and I won't have people talking."  
  
Harry sighed. "You've let me run about in clothes five times too big for me and in shoes that should have been put to pasture seasons ago for most of my life. The neighbors, when they used to see me at all, were afraid of me, anyway, because of the rumors you started that I attend St. Brutus'. Having slightly longer hair will not make much-"  
  
"LONG HAIR WILL NOT BE TOLERATED IN THIS HOUSEHOLD! I MAKE THE RULES AND I SAY IT GOES _TONIGHT!"_ Vernon banged his fist on the table, making Petunia's gray gelatin mold with boiled cherries wobble dangerously. Harry said nothing, but his eyes narrowed and his chest began to feel tight.  
  
"Tonight is my first lesson with Professor Lupin. He should be here in about ten minutes and I don't think-"  
  
Panic.  
  
That would be a good word to describe the mood that gripped the family at that moment. Dessert gelatin mold forgotten, all three of them jumped up from the table and ran. Petunia grabbed plates and ran to scrape food into the bin. Vernon grabbed the serviettes on the table, balled them on the counter and ran upstairs, having done his bit to help, all the while yelling something threatening. Dudley just ran.  
  
Harry took a few more bites of the lump of meat Petunia referred to as "sanitary beef" and decided it was enough. He slowly carried his plate over to the sink, careful not to bump Petunia as she zipped around in a cleaning frenzy, jabbering incoherently to herself. Harry wished he hadn't said anything now. But at least it had gotten Vernon off the subject of hair. For now.  
  
When Lupin knocked, Harry was the only one to go anywhere near the door. He could hear scurryings in the background and hoped that whoever wasn't feeling safe enough would soon find cover. He gave them a few more seconds and then opened the door to see Lupin's strained face and familiarly battered robe in the porchlamp.  
  
"Come in, Professor."  
  
Lupin smiled tiredly and Harry found himself trying to remember when the last full moon had occurred. "I'm not your Professor, Harry."  
  
Harry moved out of the way for him to come inside. "Sure you are. You're here to teach me Occlumency, right?" Lupin made his way inside. He smelled of smoke and cedar, which caused Harry to pause just a moment. He stared at Lupin as he walked further into the house. Something didn't feel-  
  
_ "Reducto!"_  
  
A flash of red light outside the door-  
  
_ "Harry!"_  
  
Harry jerked away just as the door imploded. The blast knocked him over sideways, but his wand was out by the time he hit the floor. Lupin was yelling his name, hauling him to his feet. Someone was screaming from the kitchen. Then the first Death Eater appeared at the door, dark robes swirling about him.  
  
_ "Repellos!"_ Harry yelled with conviction, thrusting his wand forward just as the Death Eater pointed his wand. The black-clad body flew backwards, taking the next attacker with him.  
  
"Good!" Lupin commended him tersely. Harry had just thought they just might be able to handle the Death Eaters if they came one at a time, when the Tom struck.  
  
A blinding pain cut through Harry's mind and his knees buckled. Not now! He clutched at his scar with one hand and tried to keep his wand pointed at the door. He was seeing double. Lupin tried to haul him up again.  
  
"Harry! Harry! Not now-wait, just stay here, I'll take care of them." From the sound in Lupin's voice, Harry knew that more attackers had arrived at the door.  
  
"No," he said weakly, eyes shut tight against the pain.  
  
_ "Stupefy!"_ There was the sound of a body falling outside. Shouts.  
  
"Damn," Lupin muttered. "Moody!" He yelled out the door. "There's-"  
  
_ "Avada Kedavra!"_  
  
Before the curse was finished Harry went sprawling backwards with Lupin's entire body weight on top of him. A spell blasted the stairs somewhere to their left, sending debris flying.  
  
More screaming.  
  
Harry couldn't open his eyes. Needles were jabbing into his brain. He had to fight, but how? How could he make his mind a blank wall when he was in excruciating pain? Then Ginny's words jumped into his mind:  
  
_ Whenever Tom is haunting you, think of love. It must guard your mind in some way . . . .  
_  
Harry's mind jumped to Sirius and the way he would listen intently to Harry, as if his feelings and worries were even more important than his own. He thought of how giddy Sirius had been at Grimmauld Place that Christmas.  
  
An ache filled his heart somewhere under all the pain, and he missed Sirius with everything in him. There was a terrible wrenching in his mind, and then the pain left.  
  
Harry rolled over to his hands and knees, straightening his glasses on the way. He took only a brief moment to register the destruction that had already overtaken the hall and den area-debris strewn everywhere. Someone was crying in the background.  
  
Lupin was back up at the door now, and the sounds of battle were coming from outside-shouts of curses and flashes of light. Lupin turned to Harry with steady eyes.  
  
"Harry. Stay inside the house. You'll be much safer in here." He turned his wand to the splintered door hanging on its hinges. _"Rectify!"_ The door pulled itself together and re-formed into solid oak. "Stay inside, Harry!" He slammed the door with a quick locking curse. Harry ran to the door and hesitated. He wanted nothing more than to run out and help, but after Sirius-  
  
_ Dammit. No more of this.  
_  
_ "Alohomora!"_ Harry flung the door open with his wand poised.  
  
Outside was chaos.  
  
By the pooled street lights, Harry could see at least fifteen Death Eaters battling in ones or twos with Aurors. Light was blasting everywhere, hitting bushes, houses, causing destruction randomly. Two of the dark bodies were down, the rest were backing up the street, casting curses. As Harry watched, two of them broke away to run for the dark, open doorway of Number Thirteen. Shouts rang out and one of them hit the ground.  
  
_ "Stupefy!"_ Harry yelled and spun a curse that downed the other Death Eater. Instantly, the rest turned to face him.  
  
"Harry! No! _Harry!"_ A round of shouts rang out among the Aurors. "Get back inside—"  
  
He flicked his eyes back over to see the Death Eaters throwing curses his way. There were too many all at once-  
  
_ "Avada Kedavra_—_"  
  
"Crucio_—_"  
  
"Imperio_—_"_  
  
Harry dove sideways, rolling, hearing splintering wood behind him. More shouts from the Aurors, throwing curses. He looked up to see a dark pool of Death Eaters on the ground now. But several still managed to throw a curse in his direction—  
  
_ "Imperio!"  
  
"Reducto!"  
_  
He tried to throw himself away in time, but the concussion still caught him from behind and threw him forward. He hit the ground, his mind reeling. He was dizzy—  
  
_ "Crucio!"_  
  
Pain erupted from his shoulder and inflamed every nerve ending. He rolled over in agony, burning from the inside out, in flames that wouldn't end. All thought burned out of his mind and there was just pain . . . and pain . . . and more pain . . . .  
  
_ "Finite Incantatem!"_  
  
Someone had stopped it. More shouting. Harry lay in the glare of the porchlamp, convulsing, his cramped muscles slowly going limp. There were still a few Aurors fighting. He really should get up and help, but the continued trembling and disorientation made it impossible.  
  
There was more screaming. Neighbors. More Aurors' yelling. A curse hit somewhere right beside Harry's head. He didn't even blink. If they wanted to get him, he was a nice, still target. But nothing else came his way.  
  
Harry lay there for what felt like a long time, until Lupin limped back over and knelt gracelessly beside him.  
  
Harry tried to smile. "Guess I should have stayed inside, huh?"  
  
"It was a very brave thing to do, but YES!" Lupin shouted the last word in uncharacteristic exasperation. He heaved in and out a breath, obviously trying to get in control.  
  
"Did you hurt your leg?" Harry tried to distract him.  
  
"Forget about me! You're bleeding from head to toe! Moody!"  
  
Harry tried to look downwards, but couldn't; his head wouldn't move. Or rather, it would, but the pain in his neck wouldn't allow it. Two blasts in close proximity; that must be why he was bleeding so much. Harry lifted one arm to see bloody criss-crosses of cuts with dirt imbedded in them. How had he gotten so dirty?  
  
Harry dropped his arm again as a sudden spasm of pain hit. He didn't think he was truly injured. Just tired and still feeling the effects of the Cruciatus. Someone was talking over his head, but he just wanted to close his eyes. His mind idly wondered why bad things seemed to happen whenever Lupin came to visit.  
  
Moody's voice faded in and out. "Take it off . . . seen anythin' like it, Remus . . . covered in evil spells . . ."  
  
A thrill of music swept over Harry and made his heart swell with joy.  
  
"Fawkes," Lupin said in a relieved voice. "Good. Harry needs you."  
  
There was the sound of wings flapping over him, and the soft feeling of drops plashing on his skin-on his face, his arms, running down his neck. The skin was healing, he could feel it. The ache in his neck faded slowly. He stopped trembling and sighed deeply.  
  
He wanted to open his eyes, but his brain wouldn't agree to do it. Instead, he found himself drifting in a gentle sea of thoughtlessness and peace.  
  
******  
  
_ Coming Soon:  
Ch. 6- An Even More Private Room  
  
Enough battling Death Eaters . . . for now!  
Poor Harry needs some rest.  
But is there such a thing as too much rest?_


	6. An Even More Private Room

_Disclaimer: J.K. Rowling and her wonderful creation, including its characters, places, and things belong to her and her alone. Being inspired, and being bereft of book six, I do nothing but emulate and elaborate. This is not intended to steal from her work, or for any monetary benefit.  
  
AN: Reviews are sustenance! Thanks so much for the reviews!_  
  
_ Ch. 6- An Even **More** Private Room_  
  


*

*

*

  
Harry did not wake up where he was supposed to be. Instead of the ward at Hogwarts, he woke up in his own bed at Number Four, Privet Drive- alone. There were no bandages on him anywhere, and his glasses lay on the bedside table. Beside them was the bottle of what looked blurrily like Dreamless Sleep Potion. Harry was still tired and his whole body ached. But then, he was recovering from the Cruciatus and that was to be expected. He wondered if anyone else had been injured besides him, and if he'd done the right thing in running out of the house like that.  
  
Harry reached over and grabbed the bottle. It was already half gone. Had he drunk all of that? He couldn't remember doing it. He swallowed a nasty couple of mouthfuls before placing it carefully back on the table with the top stuck on carelessly. Maybe he should write down what time he took it. He didn't want to overdose himself . . . if that was possible.  
  
Why on earth had Dumbledore abandoned him here . . . .  
  
******  
  
Harry awoke, vaguely aware that something was wrong. Someone was making irate noises at him. Was that-was that an owl?  
  
Harry opened his eyes blearily and tried to focus them in the dark. He lay on his back, every muscle aching, intensely aware that he needed to go to the loo. How long had he laid there? How long had Hedwig been hooting like that? He rolled over, crushing his glasses against his face and trying to straighten them with clumsy fingers. When had he put his glasses on?  
  
Sitting up was a feat in and of itself, but Harry finally managed. Standing was near impossible. Hedwig hadn't stopped hooting yet and Harry was suddenly aware that it was nighttime and the Dursleys would be sleeping.  
  
"Shut up," he hissed at her. She hooted back forcefully, as if reminding him that something was wrong that he needed to attend to.  
  
"I'll attend to it when I return, all right?" She hooted more quietly as he struggled his way out of the door. It was amazing how heavy and clumsy his body felt, like he'd only slept a few hours and needed ages more. The potion was probably still working, though it felt different than he remembered. And when had he barked his shin? It was aching fit to be cut off . . . .  
  
When he stumbled back to his room, a bit relieved in body, Hedwig hooted at him and showed him her leg. A note was attached there. Funny, he didn't remember sending anything out . . . .  
  
"Fine, I'll get it, but please, no noise. I have no idea how much trouble I'm in right now, but I don't imagine that attack made me any more popular with the Dursleys." It took almost a full minute for Harry to unfold the note; his fingers worked so sluggishly.

  
  
_ Harry,  
If you get this message and are okay, then write back immediately. It has been almost three days since we left you at Privet Drive and—  
  
  
_

Harry gasped. Three days? It was impossible. But yes, there were several shirts and pants tossed in the corner, and books strewn about, as if he'd been up and about. His fingers had a bit of ink on them. The trouble was that he couldn't remember writing anything, or being anywhere but in bed. Vaguely, he recalled Petunia bringing soup once. Had he even eaten it? He was starving.  
  


_  
            —frankly, we're worried. You were physically fine, but the Dursleys' took to being memory modified even worse this time and seemed a bit muddled by the experience. Are they treating you well?  
  
            In case you don't remember our conversation before we left (you were pretty out of it), Moody discovered that my robe was charmed to weaken the wards on the Dursleys house. It was a complex spell, one that needed a bit of my blood, which is a bit of a puzzle to me. Somehow, they must have obtained it, perhaps when I was in wolf form and thus do not remember it?  
  
            At any rate, when I entered the Dursleys' home, the wards would weaken on an incremental cycle that did not trigger Dumbledore's alarms. All the Death Eaters had to do was follow me in at the right time, and you were ripe for the taking. Fortunately, you are much too quick to be taken that easily. And fortunately for me, this all translates into the school buying me new robes with Impervious Charms already on them.  
  
            Unfortunately, our other plans have been disrupted. You know what they were. For now, that has been postponed. Your safety is of utmost importance, and we have shown that visitors can disrupt that far too easily. Right now, it seems that everyone who would not be a danger to you would be a danger to themselves or would be incapable of teaching you that which you need to know.  
  
            So, for now, please rest and let us know how you are. Practice what you can. And write us. If you don't write today, we'll be forced to send someone in to check on you.  
  
            Sincerely, Remus_  
  
            

            Harry could only vaguely keep his mind wrapped around the words. No Occlumency for now, and the wards had been breached? That's how they got in that first time after Lupin came in for me, Harry suddenly realized. In fact, he should have been wondering about that all along.  
  
            A sudden dizziness overcame him that forced him to lie back on the bed. His vision blurred. Something wasn't right. "Hedwig, I'll reply in the morning. I'm not . . . feeling well."  
  
            Her frantic hooting broke the spell temporarily. He opened his eyes to see her flying madly about the room, then alighting on his desk with all the grace of a wildebeest. That, alone made him open his eyes wider. She was really upset.  
  
            "It's okay, Hedwig, calm . . . calm down."  
  
            But she was up again, flying over him. With a thud, his inkwell landed on his chest. Harry scrambled clumsily to keep it from turning over and falling open. Then a quill quickly followed.  
  
            Harry sat up slowly, looking from one to the other with distress. He didn't think he could form words at this point. Hedwig hooted angrily at him.  
  
            "I know! I know that's what you want me to do. It's just . . . oh_—_all right." Harry turned the letter over and positioned it over his knee. Hedwig screeched. "Oh, come on! How do you expect me to get up and walk over there when I can't even . . . keep my eyes open."  
  
            The yawning was getting unmanageable now. Harry carefully opened his inkwell and set it beside his thigh. Then he dipped the quill even more carefully and laid it on the parchment. He wished he could think. Every time he settled on a word, it dissipated nearly before he could get it down. He screwed up his eyes and tried to focus.  
  
  


            _Lupin__, _

_            Not very good. Can't remember. Sleeping too mu . . .  
  
  
_

            Harry's mind was fuzzing out. What word had he been writing? His hand dropped the quill. Hedwig was hooting again, but Harry just sighed, "I'll finish it later . . ."  
  
            An uncomfortable warmth had blossomed in his stomach, making him feel terribly sick. He flopped over on his side, knowing with uncomfortable certainty that he'd just spilled his inkwell.  
  
            "Damn," he muttered, feeling the wetness against his thigh. In the darkness, he heard more hooting and felt the brush of wings against his cheek. The sound grew fainter and somehow, he knew that Hedwig had gone.  
  
******  
  
            He woke to loud screaming downstairs and flopped over in bed, desperate to cling to awareness. After just that small movement, he was breathing hard.  
  
            "Settle down, Harry," said a calm voice at his elbow. Harry looked over to see a smiling face swimming before him, distorted out of familiarity. But that red hair . . .  
  
            "Ron . . ."  
  
            "It's Bill," the face said brightly, "the first of your Weasley bodyguards. The screaming downstairs is probably Charlie showing up to relieve me. I think he might be showing them his dragon Patronus. At least I hope he is."  
  
            Harry sighed, head feeling so heavy that he couldn't even nod. "Sorry, Bill."  
  
            "Go back to sleep mate. That's why we're here. You've got to get all that sleeping potion out of your system and those Muggles can't be trusted in the meantime. Bastards. They'd given you enough for a month in three days! You'll be sleeping for a while. Charlie'll likely be here when you wake up."  
  
            _Petunia drugged me?_  
  
            "By the way, nice hair."  
  
            Harry dropped off with a smile on his face, feeling safer than he'd felt in a long, long time.  
  
******  
  
            "Hey, mate, I'm almost off my shift." Harry heard the shifting of a chair nearby and suddenly realized that his eyes were open. He'd been debating for a few minutes whether or not he was still alive and until he heard Charlie's voice, he hadn't been sure. He saw a blurry face with bright red hair come into view. "Need to go to the loo?"  
  
            Harry sighed and nodded, a bit embarrassed to realize how much help he was going to need. He sat up and felt the world begin to spin around him.  
  
            "Easy, mate." Charlie put an arm around his back, sitting beside him and steadying him. "Think you can stand up? I can carry you if I need to." Harry shook his head desperately. Then he sat, unmoving, while the world tilted violently around him again, feeling weaker than he could ever remember feeling in his life. A small whimper left him, which he immediately cut off. He was pathetic.  
  
            "Bugger this. You can't walk, and I can't move you when you're like that," Charlie decided abruptly. "Just lay back down and we'll do a little trick I learned out in the dragon camps. The mediwizard out there is this really cute Asian girl with these amazing . . . uh, eyes, and she's taught me quite a few useful things. You know, things to help with injuries, that sort of thing."  
  
            Harry was grateful to be lying down again, but he couldn't nod yet. He settled for opening his eyes again.  
  
            Charlie looked like he might be blushing a bit. "Anyway, this is a spell for relieving someone who can't piss themselves." Harry grimaced and tensed, hating this with every fiber of his being. "Just relax, mate." Charlie muttered something, waved his wand, and suddenly Harry felt much better. The ache in his back was gone, and his body relaxed fully against the bed. "Better, eh?"  
  
            "Thanks," Harry mumbled, hoping Charlie would understand he really didn't need to tell his family about this, especially Ron. Or Ginny. Or, good grief, the twins. He'd never hear the end of it.  
  
            "That's what I'm here for. Or, well, maybe not really. I'm really here to put the fear of wizards back into those flobberworms you call Auntie and Uncle. Bugger, I wish I'd been the first to get here. Bill had a nice chat with them, but they recovered far too quickly for my taste. Since we can't get rid of them, I wanted to transfigure them into something more handy for you-you know, mice or something you can control with a backhand or two. But Mum insisted that you need someone to look after you_—_"  
  
            "I don't. I'm fine."  
  
            Charlie just smiled and grunted under his breath. "You'd make a great dragon tamer, mate. I brought you some jerky. Bill had said to make you drink more soup, but Fudge that! You haven't had solid food in how long?"  
  
            "No idea," Harry said wearily, his mouth already watering.  
  
            "Well, this will at least let you chew a bit. Here's your glasses, by the way." Charlie handed them over and Harry put them on with trembling hands. "See that? You need some meat in you. Chew this."  
  
            A thick strip of dark, dry meat was thrust into Harry's face and he took it gratefully. The taste of it was salty and peculiar, but wonderful. His jaws locked up with a cramp when he started chewing, but he worked it out weakly. He only managed a few pained bites before he had to stop. Charlie looked flustered. "That's all? Look, you've been asleep for half a day just since we've been here. You need to eat more, Harry."  
  
            "Tired." Harry mumbled and turned over on his side. The room was dimming, and Charlie's voice quieted.  
  
            "Bloody hell, those Muggles_—_all right, Harry. You sleep. I'll tell Fred to give you the soup next. You need to eat more. Bloody hell, I sound like Mum . . ."  
  
            Harry slipped back into darkness.  
  
******  
  
"Harry, are you waking up, then? I have no idea how you've kept from going barmy in this room all day long with nothing to do! All you have to read are these pratty school books. What do you do for fun, mate, count the cobwebs?" Harry tried to focus his eyes, and once again felt his glasses pressed into his hands. Fred's face came zooming in. "How you feeling, then? Got that nasty stuff out of your stomach yet?"  
  
Harry shook his head, relieved to feel it the right weight again. "I'm fine," he said thickly. "How long have you been here?"  
  
"Oh, coupla' hours. Charlie said to give you soup, but I think he's crackers. I brought you a bit of Mum's steak-and-kidney pie. Ginny says that's your favorite."  
  
Harry smiled, feeling his stomach agree. "She's right. Hand it over."  
  
"Not so fast. First we have a little lesson in dining in bed etiquette. One-never try to eat lying down, especially if one is eating soup. It tends to run down the chin and puddle in the belly button. Not a pleasant sensation. Two-never eat Mum's steak-and-kidney pie without a Butterbeer. It's a travesty." Fred grinned as Harry sat up and offered him a bottle of Butterbeer.  
  
"Wow, thanks!" Harry grabbed it, opened the top and took a sip of the cold drink.  
  
"Charmed, of course," Fred indicated. "Not me. The drink." Harry smiled and grabbed the plate of food Fred had just waved his wand over to heat. "Good to see you're not beyond our aid, then."  
  
"Brought you a present, too, not that we're going all girly on you, or anything like that. It's been in development this Summer for the shop, and we thought you deserved the first test version."  
  
With a flourish, Fred pulled a plush, stuffed bear out of the knapsack at the foot of his chair. Harry just stared at it, taking in the ruffled, jet-black fur, the bright green eyes and the jagged, embroidered pink scar on the bear's forehead.  
  
"Meet Beary Botter, or B.B. for short." Harry blinked. "Our first idea was to make action figures out of you and Voldemort, like they do in the Muggle World, but Ginny told us she'd hex us into next week if we did that. So we settled for stuffed animals and pseudonyms. It's a bit better, isn't it?"  
  
Harry nodded, having gone a bit pale at the idea of an action figure based on him. He should thank Ginny for that. "Yeah, I suppose it's a bit better." But then images filled his head of little girls crushing the bear to their chests as they slept at night, crying into its fur and then images of just as many older brothers stringing the bear up by its neck and beating the stuffing out of it while the little girls cried.  
  
"Yeah, well, hang on, Harry," Fred said hastily, but with a wild grin. "You haven't heard the really fantastic part yet. See, George figured you'd want to hex us blind and suggested we give Beary a wand and a cloak, which we will." Harry raised his eyebrows at that. "You see, then, Beary can fight his nemesis . . ."  
  
Here, Fred thrust Beary into Harry's lap and pulled out another bear, one with no fur, just dirty brown scales and bright red eyes. "Voldebeart!"  
  
For a heartbeat, Harry just stared at the ugly creature, and then a grin slowly dawned. "Vol-de-beart?" Tom would hate that, a ridiculous toy mocking his name. "How do they fight?"  
  
"Well, we're still working on that right now. Right now, all Beary can do is hurl insults." Fred reached over to poke Beary in the stomach.  
  
_ "I'm fine,"_ the toy said in a voice uncannily like Harry's own, only smaller.  
  
"Sorry, not that one." He poked the bear again.  
  
_ "I said I'm fine,"_ the toy insisted. Harry cracked another smile. He was beginning to like this bear.  
  
Fred gave an exaggerated sigh. "He's only supposed to say that when he's injured. Third time pays for all, eh?" He poked the bear once more.  
  
_ "I'll never join you, Voldebeart!"_  
  
_ "We meet again, Beary Botter,"_ said a cold voice emanating from the bear in Fred's arms. "But this time will be your last!"  
  
_ "Says who?"_ asked Beary.  
  
_ "Says me,"_ spat back Voldebeart.  
  
_ "Yeah, well, you wear your Granny's old knickers and always have!"_ Harry snickered at Beary's outburst.  
  
But Voldebeart wasn't done yet. _"You are too belli—belliger—uh, smart for your britches. Good thing for me, I brought a friend to convince you that I am superior—my giant, bear-eating spider, Bear-a-gog!"  
_  
Harry winced at the ridiculous name, but Beary wasn't done yet.  
  
_ "Well, bad thing for you, I brought my sidekick, Bearon, who brought his trusty Ford Anglia who eats bear-eating spiders."  
_  
Fred smiled and whispered. "Merchandising tie-ins."  
  
"Of course." Harry nodded.  
  
_ "Well, we shall see who eats last, Beary Botter."  
_  
_"And who keeps it down the best,"_ Beary retorted. Then he whispered_, "If something happens to me, Bearon, save yourself."_ Then Beary made several pained noises and gasped for breath. _"He got me! No—go on, Bearon, I'm fine."  
_  
Harry shook his head in disgust. "Do I even want to know what Bearon's programmed to say?"  
  
"No," Fred agreed readily. "And you really don't want to know what Bearon's little sister, Bearginia says when Beary rescues her from Voldebeart's bear-eating snake. It's really terrible. But, I don't know. I think there may be a market for it. What do you think?"  
  
Harry fell into an uncomfortable silence before tossing Beary back to Fred. "I'm sure I have no idea. I wouldn't want it. But then I spent ten years in a dark cupboard playing with abandoned chess pieces and dead spiders."  
  
"Well, see, here's the really great part," Fred said with a gleam in his eye. "All we have to have is two drops of your blood per bear and your signature." Harry stared. "After all, we've been told your blood has special powers. Imagine how powerful the bears would be!"  
  
Harry was frozen on the bed. "Er . . . I guess. I mean-well, it's not that I- I don't want to . . . stand in the way of . . . anything."  
  
Fred's eyes goggled. "You mean it, don't you? Oh, Harry," he stood up and clapped Harry on the shoulder. "I'd have told myself to bugger off a long way back. You're far too nice." Then he grinned. "You should have seen your face when I showed you Voldebeart. And told you about the drops of blood!" Harry was flushing madly by this point, realizing he'd been completely and utterly had.  
  
". . . obviously not thinking properly," he halfway defended himself. Fred just laughed on until Harry had to join in. He almost upturned his plate of food several times.  
  
"Eat up, mate. If you fell for that one, your brain definitely needs more food." Harry managed to down the entire pie and the Butterbeer, as Fred periodically fell back into laughter and repeated the parts of the conversation he found particularly hilarious. Finally, Harry's eyes started to droop.  
  
"Well, there you go again," Fred sighed. "Guess George'll have a go at keeping you awake next. He'll be due in another hour. Can't wait to see what Dudders does when he shows up." He grinned evilly.  
  
Harry laid back, wonderful thoughts of the Weasleys terrorizing his family filling his mind.  
  
******  
  
When Harry next opened his eyes, he was outside. Dark trees blocked out the view of the moon, and everything around him was deep in shadows that swayed in the wind. Fifty meters away, a country road wound through the woods. It seemed familiar_—_a place he'd visited once before, long ago.  
  
Impatience filled him, then hatred.  
  
"Fools. Can they get nothing right?" Harry whipped around at a sharp cracking sound. "IDIOTS," he hissed. _"Silence!"__  
_  
"My apologies, My Lord," hissed a silky voice in return. Into the dim light stepped a Death Eater, Lucius by the sound of his voice. "I have not yet regained my full physical capabilities-"  
  
_ "Silencio! Crucio!"_  
  
Lucius fell to the ground with a satisfying thud and began writhing. He had become far too forward of late. He needed to remember that Harry could have left him in Prison to rot. He finally ended the curse. The group behind Lucius was silent in the dark, cowering as he struggled to his feet.  
  
"Thank you . . . Master."  
  
"No excuses. Do not fail me again. Let us proceed." Harry stood still while his Death Eaters flowed across the forest floor like mist invading the moors. He smiled and thought with glee of the house below-unsuspecting, unprotected.  
  
They had dared to befriend the One and their deaths would serve to be his further undoing. Harry raised his wand and whispered, _"Previa Mantra, Carpe Scintra."_ Clouds were pulled from their positions, slowly, slowly, until they covered the face of the moon. The grassy hillside was plunged into darkness, and the house at the foot of the hill.  
  
Given the signal, the Death Eaters surged across the field, jogging silently, without breath, without any extra motion_—_efficiency personified.  
  
Harry smiled and walked more slowly behind them. He wanted to be there to see the torturous deaths, but he could do without the surprised scuffle that would surely take place beforehand. Death Eaters had already poisoned the guards sent by the Order, placed into their hands by an Order member under the Imperious. They were really so easily influenced . . . .  
  
Harry noticed with small stirrings of anticipation that the door was open, and light was spilling outside. Immediately, it was covered up by the forms of Death Eaters converging.  
  
Then the first screams rent the air.  
  
"Ah," Harry breathed out loud. "Women and children first. Isn't that just the way it should be?" He slowed his pace, thinking through the various Weasley inhabitants, trying to match the person to the screams_—_  
  
_ "HARRY!"_  
  
Harry jerked upright, the screaming quickly dissolving into an echo of his own. He threw his hands to his forehead, trying to squeeze away the all-consuming pain. Voices were calling him; hands held him up, tried to keep him from shivering. A blanket was being wrapped around him and he fought it.  
  
_ "OY!_ That was my face, you prat!"  
  
"Harry, what is it?" He stopped fighting and tried to focus his eyes on the Weasley brothers. The vision. He threw himself at one of them, grasping at their sleeves.  
  
"Go home! Please!"  
  
"What? I just got here. Why don't you_—_"  
  
"Shut up, George," Fred interrupted. "Harry, did you have a vision? Is it Mum?" Harry nodded and immediately, a blurry twin jerked away.  
  
"Wait!" Harry called after him, panicked. "I'm sure it was a fake. Tom's done this before."  
  
"What? Why?" George sounded a bit behind.  
  
"He's trying to make me leave the house, or trying to drive me insane- I don't know which. But it wasn't real, Fred. It wasn't." Fred stayed still a moment, considering his words. Then he nodded once.  
  
"Okay, then. But I'm still going home. If nothing's happened, I won't send anyone back right away. Ron's due in two hours, so you'll get news by then if not before." Fred set off, jerking the door closed behind him.  
  
In the following quiet, Harry tried to silence his loud breathing. He lied back against the well shivering again, glad for the blanket. George got up and wordlessly handed Harry his glasses. His face came into focus, pale and troubled as he forced a smile and then walked over to the desk to sit down.  
  
Harry's stomach turned over. Why now? Why did Tom have to do this now?  
  
But the answer was obvious.  
  
Tom had just upped the pressure. If both twins hadn't been here, then George would have had a tough decision to make: abandon Harry to his Muggle relatives and go see for himself, or abandon his family to their fate. Only the vision wasn't real, so the choice wasn't, either. But still, if George were less of a friend, if he weren't a Weasley, he'd be gone by now.  
  
Harry looked over at George sitting hunched over, eyes narrowed to slits, face pale behind freckles, hands clenched.  
  
"It wasn't real, George. I know it."  
  
George just nodded and kept staring at nothing. He didn't ask any questions, and Harry slipped into the cloudy world of pain and tremors that accompanied his visions. Eventually, the side effects eased, and he fell into a vague half-consciousness.  
  
******

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*  
  
_ Thank you for the reviews.  
And now . . . a little prattling to answer those questions you've asked.  
  
**Ships?** Never heard of 'em. I'm in canon as far as possible, which precludes most of those dastardly silly little boats. If you want my opinion on the matter, I think JK's spent too much time building Ginny up in OOTP to have her just step aside again. She's being set up to be something close to Harry's equal, which is surprising and exciting. And, of course, there's the whole fact that Harry is far too damaged to be with anyone who doesn't completely understand his past and his burdens, so there you go. Ginny makes sense there as well. As for Luna, she's brave, fruity and other than that, basically an unknown, so, well . . . I don't know. Anything's possible. After all, JKR turned my feelings on Cho completely around in just a few pages (Silly, silly girl.)  
  
**Writing Death Eater Attacks, fun**? Oh yeah!!! I love it! More fun than a barrel of monkeys! Hope I can f it several more in there.  
  
**Dursley**** scenario "unpractical"?** Um . . . I'm supposing you meant unrealistic. Well, possibly. But then when have the Dursleys ever been realistic? JKR manages to make them overblown in ever sense of the word and yet, real. Amazing, really. Their respsonses to Harry have always been dramatic and they go way too far. As for those of you who think Harry wasn't knocked around a bit when he was younger, where do you think he got those quick reflexes from? The main change in my fic is that Vernon has gone back to doing it and Harry refuses to duck or dodge as he did when he was younger.  
  
** Harry torture.** Well, face it, folks. Tom ain't gonna' get NICER in book six, now, is he?  
  
**Coming Soon: **_

_  
Enough sleeping! Enough Weasleys!  
Enough-oh, wait, no, there's still two more Weasleys to go.  
Sorry about that.  
  
Ch. 7- It's All About Ron  
  
_


	7. It's All About Ron

_Disclaimer: J.K. Rowling and her wonderful creation, including its characters, places, and things belong to her and her alone. Being inspired, and being bereft of book six, I do nothing but emulate and elaborate. This is not intended to steal from her work, or for any monetary benefit.  
  
AN: Thanks so much for the reviews!_  
  
**_ Chapter 7: It's All About Ron_**  
  
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Harry was desperately pulling himself awake as soon as another scream split the silence. He sat up and looked around groggily, trying to identify attackers and victims. It was with some disorientation he realized that he wasn't in the middle of a vision. Instead, he was in his room with a startled-looking George Weasley. The scream had come from downstairs and Harry realized that he knew who it was.  
  
George nodded. "That'll be Ron, then, right on time." He jumped up and strode toward the door. He jerked the door open and called down over the muffled sound of Ron yelling loudly. "Oy! Ron! Up here!"  
  
"Half a mo'!" Ron's voice carried up loudly. "Just got to—" There was a thud and a louder thud. "All right, on my way!"  
  
George paced back over to the window silently. He whipped around as soon as loud steps reached the door. Ron's even-taller frame filled the doorway, and he tossed a quick grin in George's direction as he rubbed at his fist. "One git down, two more to go, eh?" Then his eyes went wide as he found Harry, who was still struggling to stop swaying from where he sat up on the bed.  
  
"Ron, good to see you, mate."  
  
Ron actually rocked back on his heels. "Holy hell, Harry! What happened to you?" Harry looked down at the bedclothes, suddenly self- conscious of his mussed, dirty appearance.  
  
"Lay off, you idiot! He's been halfway to death twice this Summer already. It's not his fault. How's everything at home?"  
  
Ron looked at George questioningly. "Oh, s'fine, I guess. Fred's been acting a bit barmy since he got home. He's been 'patrolling the perimeter' and using the floo like a chimney sweep. Barking."  
  
George looked relieved, but determined. "Right." Then he turned to Harry and knelt in front of him. His eyes bored into Harry's own. "Don't give in, mate. He's just trying to jar you, draw you out. You don't believe it for a second, no matter what he shows you. And don't you worry about the Weasleys. We can take care of ourselves."  
  
Harry swallowed, alarmed at the sudden stinging in his eyes. He finally nodded and George smiled grimly before turning to leave. Ron watched him walk out the door with a dropped jaw.  
  
"Oh, and Ron," George turned back right at the door. "Try and make Harry eat. I forgot."  
  
Ron followed slowly behind and closed the door. He turned to stare at Harry, who finally looked away from the scrutiny, not sure if it was his appearance or George's behavior that was causing Ron's narrowed gaze. Abruptly, Ron stalked over to the desk chair, threw himself down in it and sighed. He said nothing.  
  
Harry watched him stare out the window for a minute, realizing that Ron was probably gathering his thoughts for that torrent of anger that Ginny had warned him about. No sense in trying to disarm it. He'd just wait.  
  
Unfortunately, it was slowly being impressed upon him that he very badly needed to visit the loo, but wasn't sure how that would work out. Carefully, he stood to his feet and took a few unsteady steps. Ron had turned to watch him.  
  
"Need a hand?"  
  
"Er . . . no. I think I can—well . . . maybe." Harry stopped at the door and rested one hand against the wall. Feeling weaker by the second, he sank into it deeply until his knees began to buckle. Then Ron was there beside him suddenly, putting a hand under his arm, lifting him up and settling his arm over Ron's shoulders.  
  
"Up you go." Harry kept his eyes closed, but figured Ron must be stooping a good foot and a half to get up under his arm that way.  
  
"Thanks," he mumbled.  
  
It was an awkward trip, and the trip back was worse. Harry had insisted on privacy, which left him winded and dizzy beyond bearing. Everything was blurry and there was a buzzing in his head that he couldn't shake.  
  
Halfway back, the walls turned bright white and the buzzing grew until it eclipsed all else . . . .

  
  
"Could have given me some warning, mate!" Harry was being jostled and laid on the bed by a breathless Ron. "Blimey! Just slid right down in the middle of everything!" Ron sat back, a bit pale and shaking his head. "Did you do this to the others?"  
  
"Sorry." Harry felt so weak that tears were leaking out of his eyes and he couldn't wipe them. "I felt bad," he whispered.  
  
Ron snorted. "Figured that much, Harry. Any other breaking news for me?" But then concern filled his eyes. "Get some rest. I'll be here when you wake up." Harry nodded and closed his eyes.  
  
The room felt airy and bright around him, and the buzzing lay faint in the background. A soft whisper reached his ears just before he nodded off.  
  
"I'm right here, mate. Nothin's going to happen to you now. I swear it."  
  
******  
  
Harry woke after several hours of sleep feeling the best he had in days, if still weak from malnutrition. Ron was obviously relieved to see him awake. He stood and emptied his pockets which proved to hold several ingenious foods that magically inflated to normal size when you spit on them. It was a bit messy, but fun, and the fish and chips tasted fresh from the paper. There was also a meat pasty and a serving of consommé in a cup.  
  
The only thing Harry wouldn't touch was the bar of chocolate from Honeydukes. The smell of it revolted him. Ron was unnerved by the abrupt change until Harry reminded him that the last chocolate he'd eaten (that cake) had eaten half his stomach right back.  
  
By the time he was done eating, Harry felt up to trying his first solo trip down the hallway. When he got back, the window was open and a strange owl was sitting on the back of the desk chair. Ron turned to him with an abrupt change in expression, almost accusatory.  
  
"Since when are you getting owls from Malfoy?"  
  
"What?" But as Harry stepped forward, he recognized Draco's eagle owl. "He's never been here before."  
  
"Oh, does Malfoy usually send another owl?" Ron words had an edge that irritated Harry.  
  
"Ron, use your brain. Why would I be corresponding with that prat?"  
  
"Good question. I think I just asked that."  
  
Ron's nostrils were flaring; he was serious. Harry went rigid. "I have never gotten an owl from Malfoy before in my life and I have NO idea why he's started owling now and I have even LESS of a clue as to why I have to explain that to you when you know perfectly well that I DESPISE him."  
  
Ron pulled his eyes away and relaxed his stance a bit. "Just seems like you have a lot of secrets lately. That's all." Harry glared at him and started over to the owl—then stopped. "Aren't you going to open it?"  
  
"No."  
  
"Well, I bloody well will then," Ron snapped and grabbed at the owl's leg, the folded parchment in his hands before Harry could gasp out—  
  
"No! It could be a portkey!"  
  
Ron froze, staring at Harry with wide eyes. Harry stopped breathing. Five seconds ticked by as they stared at each other. . . .  
  
Eventually, it was apparent that the parchment wasn't going to transport Ron someplace horrible. Harry relaxed his rigid stance and rubbed at his forehead. Ron let out a loud breath.  
  
"Lucky one, eh? Guess this message is legit."  
  
Harry nodded shakily, not bothering to point out that portkeys can be made to only be triggered by one certain person's touch and that Ron was probably not their target. "Why don't you read it?"  
  
"All right." He snorted as he unfolded it. "Always wanted to see Malfoy give a proper death threat." As Harry watched the eagle owl stare at him, Ron drawled the next words in a very familiar manner.  
  


  
_Potter,  
  
Heard you're having trouble with your Muggles. Pity they don't understand what a rare privilege and opportunity it is to have you in their home, eating their food and breathing their air. Then again, they did make the most of it recently by drugging you senseless. Perhaps Muggles are useful after all.  
  
Although, I believe their usefulness might be coming to an end.  
  
This is a warning. Do not leave the house, you arrogant prat!  
  
Malfoy  
_  
  


"Yep," Ron concluded in his normal voice, folding the note again. "Death threat."  
  
"Did that sound strange at all to you?"  
  
"Nope. Malfoy—sneering, threatening—all's right with the world."  
  
"I would have thought it beneath him to call anyone an 'arrogant prat' in a letter. You know, sort of beneath his breeding."  
  
"Hm. Good point." Ron tossed the note in the trash can. "But nothing new. _'__Don't leave the house.'_ Everybody's been hammering that into your head all Summer. Not that you've listened."  
  
"I have, too."  
  
"Oh, right, Harry," Ron said in a voice dripping with sarcasm, leaning back against the desk. "When Lupin locked you inside to keep the Death Eaters out, you _Alohomora'd_ that thing and came out fighting like a perfectly pratty prat and you know it! If I'd been here, I would have put you in a body bind myself."  
  
"No. You'd have been out there fighting with me, Ron."  
  
Ron's face flushed. "I wouldn't have. Not when their whole point is just to get to you! What the BLOODY HELL are you thinking? Why won't you just let everyone protect you?" Harry stared at Ron, surprised that he didn't understand. Ron gathered himself and pressed his advantage.  
  
"What is it you're hiding?" Harry's eyebrows shot up and Ron pointed at him. "Don't look like that. Hermione says you're hiding something and she's right." Harry slid off the bed and walked to the open window, shaking his head nervously. The view was the same as it had been all Summer—dry, wilting grass, green trees and blue sky beckoning to him.  
  
Ron seemed to take his silence as an insult. "Come on, Harry! D'you think I couldn't tell that you and George had some kind of secret?" Ron spat the word out angrily.  
  
Harry reached out, grabbed the window panes and slammed them shut, breathing deeply and evenly, saying nothing. Ron was a suspicious—  
  
"And you and Fred, too! Why the hell can you tell THEM and not ME!"  
  
Harry struggled for a moment, then whipped around. "The only reason I told them anything is because I scared them to death when I woke up screaming bloody MURDER—THAT'S why! You KNOW how it is when I have visions, Ron! You know it!"  
  
"You had a vision?"  
  
"YES!"  
  
"Why didn't you just tell me?"  
  
"BECAUSE IT WAS OF DEATH EATERS ATTACKING THE BURROW! AND YOUR MUM—your mum . . . ." Ron had turned deathly pale, but it just made Harry angry again. "See? That's exactly why I don't tell you things, Ron! That—that right there!" He was so tired of people getting caught in the middle of his war with Tom.  
  
His war. He had to start thinking of it that way—war. Kill or be killed.  
  
Ron was leaning against the desk again, still ashen-faced. "It wasn't real, though, was it? That's what you were telling George, right?"  
  
Harry walked over to the bed and sat down despondently. "Right. Tom's just trying to make me . . . I dunno."  
  
"Lose it?"  
  
"Yeah. I guess." Harry clenched his eyes shut tightly. If only he could find a way to do end this. If only he could find a way to take Tom down alone . . . .  
  
"Why does he keep picking at you?" Harry looked over to see Ron watching him, puzzled. Harry shrugged, but in his mind he answered. He knew exactly why—because of the Prophecy.  
  
Ron swore softly. "You know why, don't you?" Harry shook his head, but Ron's voice gained confidence. "You found out, and that's what you've been hiding all Summer."  
  
Harry pressed down the small whirring of panic in his stomach. "Ron. I am NOT having this conversation."  
  
Ron snorted and crossed his arms. "I think you are, 'cause you're stuck with me for about two more hours and I'm NOT going to tiptoe around you like you're some fragile, glass hippogriff that might fly to pieces the first time I fart. I'm your best friend, Harry, and it's time you started acting like it."  
  
Harry wiped all expression off his face, laid back on his bed, crossed his feet at the ankles and put his hands resolutely behind his head. He stared at the ceiling, willing Ron to shut up, go away or die a very painful death of boredom.  
  
Ron, of course, did nothing of the sort. "You've been hiding something ever since that night we were at the Ministry."  
  
Harry harrumphed softly. Like Ron would notice that.  
  
"I reckon I wouldn't have noticed if Hermione hadn't said something, but she did and I think she's right."  
  
Stony silence greeted his words. The only movement in the room was Ron shifting his weight along the desk, pressing his hands down on the surface and leaning slightly forward.  
  
"Harry?" Nothing. "Tell me."  
  
Harry was pretending he didn't exist, something the Dursleys had taught him to do extremely well. It was easy to imagine that Ron was talking to empty air, that there was nobody actually on the bed to listen to him. Harry wasn't here and nobody could make him do anything.  
  
But then Ron stood abruptly and walked toward the door. Harry's stoicism was throttled by panic. Was he leaving? No—  
  
Ron stopped and swore loudly. He turned around to face Harry, his eyes bright and fierce, his voice slow and steady. "'Mione says it has something to do with that Prophecy." Harry stopped breathing, his eyes wide. How the—?  
  
"That's it, isn't it? She says you've been acting funny about it ever since that night, ever since you trashed Dumbledore's office." Harry couldn't help it; his jaw fell open a bit. "Wizarding portraits talk, Harry. The first time Mum and Dad took us back to Grimmauld Place this Summer, they told us." Ron gave Harry a piercing look. "I kept thinking that if I left you alone, you'd eventually talk. But . . . you've written more to my little sister than me. So, why all the secrecy? Why'd you trash Dumbledore's office?"  
  
Harry closed his mouth and looked at the ceiling again. "You were there, Ron. Bellatrix killed Sirius. And Dumbledore just—I couldn't—you know why!" Something was sitting on his chest, pressing so that he couldn't breathe. Why couldn't Ron just leave him alone?  
  
"Yeah, mate, I know," Ron said softly. "But what about the Prophecy?" Harry clenched his hands into fists behind his head. "Come on, Harry, just tell me what it is. Please."  
  
"No."  
  
Ron jumped up, swore again and kicked at the chair, connecting hard, which made him swear again. He hobbled around and then sat on the foot of the bed, facing away from Harry. Harry tried hard to control his breathing in the hard silence. His emotions were getting the better of him.  
  
Finally, Ron started in again. "Hermione says you don't trust anyone and it's going to get you one day and she's right. She says you were acting weird anytime the Prophecy came up. Why?"  
  
"I can't tell you, Ron," Harry said in an agonized voice. "I can't."  
  
Ron shook his head slowly. "You're going to tell me. I'm not leaving until you do."  
  
"Ron!" Harry closed his eyes again, fighting for control. He felt helpless.  
  
"I'm right here, mate." Ron stood and walked over to Harry's trunk and clunked down on it, facing him again. "You can't scare me off. I'm not going anywhere. You might as well start talking."  
  
"Okay. Yeah, I'll talk." Harry sat up unbelievingly. "Do you even remember last year, how Tom spent the entire year giving me dreams about that damn Chamber? Why did he do that? Waste an entire year making me believe that the Chamber was somewhere I needed to be? Think about that, Ron. The most powerful Dark Wizard in hundreds of years spent all of his energy setting me up, using information from Umbridge, using Kreacher, getting his top Death Eaters there waiting on me." Ron was silent. "He wanted that Prophecy, and he still wants it." Harry shook his head, not able to keep a hysterical grin off of his face. "If I tell you . . . if he finds out that you know . . . ." Harry kept shaking his head, unable to even continue.  
  
"You reckon he knows that you know?"  
  
"Wizarding portraits talk, right? And I think there's a leak in the Order. Somebody had to get Lupin's blood to do that spell on his robes."  
  
Ron sighed and rubbed a hand through his hair, looking oddly world- weary. "Funny thing, that. You don't want to tell me because it puts me in danger, right?" Harry nodded. "I reckon he'd figure you'd have told me by now, anyway. And if he did stop to ask, I don't think he'd believe me."  
  
Harry's face drained of blood. Time seemed to stop.  
  
Ron was right.  
  
It didn't matter if Harry told him or not, Ron was in danger just from being Harry's friend. Tom would hunt him just as much as he would hunt Harry. Visions flooded Harry's mind—Ron, Hermione, all of the Weasleys, Neville, Luna—running in fear, unable to get away from Tom.  
  
And Harry, weakened by the piercing pain of his scar, watching through visions, unable to save any of them.  
  
Emotions crashed into him, choking him. One thought prevailed:  
  
Kill or be killed—_alone._  
  
And suddenly, Harry knew how.  
  
He jumped up, grabbed his wand, looking breathlessly at Ron, who seemed frozen. Then Harry dove for the trash basket. Halfway there, he heard Ron swear as he figured his intent.  
  
Harry slid to his knees, thrust his left hand in the basket and grabbed the parchment he easily recognized as Malfoy's. He closed his eyes and waited for the familiar tug, mouth set into a grim line: he didn't care where it took him; Tom would be there.  
  
Instantly, Ron was there—bowling Harry over sideways, yelling furiously, grabbing at his fist, prying at his fingers. _". . . bloody . . . idiot!"_ Harry landed hard, crushed by Ron's weight, squeezing his fist closed with all his strength. He only needed a few seconds to have the portkey activate—  
  
Three—

  
Ron fought hard, through breaths that sounded like sobs.  
  
Two—  
  
Harry opened his eyes and let out a frustrated yell as Ron's fingers began to force his hand open.  
  
One—  
  
******  
  


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_ Coming Soon:  
  
Enough Ron! Enough Weasleys!  
Draco, anyone?  
**  
Chapter Eight: Bloody Draco**  
  
_

  
**_Kento_****_:_**_ Sorry about the Harry/Ginny stuff. But now I never said I didn't like Tonks! She's fabulous!  
  
**TexasJeanette****:** Thanks for the review! I do try to capture the characters as they are, and fancy that I can hear them talking in my head, though I can never hope to equal JKR's talent with them. And as for realism, well, I'm glad I've struck middle ground there for you. I hope I keep it right.  
  
**As for Harry in book six,** I don't think JKR will take Harry down into the pit, but neither will he escape these things in book five unscathed. I just wish I knew for sure whether or not our Harry actually has a future or not. Will he live or not after the final battle is a question I've asked myself many times, and despite all my efforts, I cannot answer it. These novels are a coming-of-age story, which means that he must be allowed to come of age. But he's predestined to be a saviour, which means that he must give his life, or at least be willing to. And now that the Prophecy has surfaced, well . . . it muddies things a bit.  
  
Any opinions on that?_


	8. Harry Potter, the One

**Chapter 8:_ Harry Potter, the One_**

Muscles clenched, sweaty fingers strained . . .

But even before his fingers were pried open, Harry knew . . . .

It wasn't a Portkey.

He opened his hand and Ron snatched at the parchment, releasing him and sitting back on his heels. Harry slowly collapsed against the floor, knees bent. His wand fell loose and he threw an arm over his eyes. Once again, he was helpless; he couldn't do anything but wait for Tom's next move. He hated it with every fiber of his being.

The sound of balled-up parchment hitting the floor cut through Harry's haze. "I can't believe you just did that," Ron said hoarsely. "Are you trying to kill me?"

"No." Harry said, pleased with his matter-of-fact tone. "That's just it. I don't want you to die." His voice broke on the last word, and whatever else he would have said clogged up behind the lump in his throat.

Ron sniffed throughout the long silence. "Yeah, well, now you know how I feel all the time." Then, with a languid thud, he sat beside Harry, back to the bed.

Harry looked up from under his arm and took in Ron's miserable expression. "I do know what the Prophecy says, and it's just going to make you feel worse."

"I don't really think that's possible," Ron said listlessly. "My best friend has a death wish. And if this bloody Prophecy is the reason why, then I wanna hear it."

Harry felt surprisingly numb, and despite the fact that he'd banished the words of the Prophecy to a deep, dark corner of his mind, they came out surprisingly easy. They sounded less mystical coming from his own mouth, but just as final, nevertheless. Afterwards, he didn't look at Ron. He knew exactly the face his friend would be wearing right now: pale, jaw dropped open, eyes bugged out. As soon as Ron spoke, Harry knew he'd been right.

"Bloody hell, Harry! I always thought you acted like you had the world on your shoulders 'cause you were kept in a cupboard for ten years and, you know, it messed you up somehow. But that wasn't it at all. You were born to it." He gulped. "What's that part about you and him not surviving while the other one lives? What's that supposed to mean?"

Harry shrugged. "One of us has to die. Not just because we hate each other, but because only one of us can live at a time. I think it's this connection thing. It's just getting stronger."

There was a long silence. "Why does it always have to be you?"

Harry snorted. "It didn't have to be. Two babies fit the Prophecy at the time it was given. Neville Longbottom was the other."

Ron barked out a laugh. "Neville, the Boy-Who-Lived? Can't imagine that."

"I can, very easily. Turns out Tom chose me. One of his men had overheard the first part of the Prophecy and went after me first, for some reason. My mum and dad tried to protect me. That's why they died-some stupid Prophecy that didn't even have to be me." Harry knew that he probably should have told Ron that Trelawney was the one who gave it, but then Harry didn't want to waste time trying to convince Ron that it was real. He only had a tentative hold on all of it himself.

"But is there any chance Neville could still do it, somehow . . . ?" Harry looked up to see desperate hope in Ron's eyes.

"No. It's the connection, Ron, the power Tom gave me when he tried to kill me the first time. That makes me the One."

Ron swore vehemently, several words that he reserved for times like this. Harry sat up and maneuvered himself so that he could lean back against the wall. He watched Ron, who was looking up at the window, arms resting on the tops of his knees, his face a study of deep thought, like when he was playing chess. For the first time in a while, Harry found himself wondering how much the events in June had changed Ron, and how much effect those scars had on him. He seemed different somehow-older.

Finally, he smirked. "Then I know what that power is, the one that Tom doesn't know about that you have." He settled serious blue eyes on Harry. "He got you at the Ministry because, well, I guess, because he knew you so well. He knew you couldn't stand to let Sirius be hurt and he used that against you." Harry looked down, feeling a lump in his throat just at the quick mention. "He thought he had you sewn up. You'd show up, grab the Prophecy and be surrounded by Death Eaters. Game over. But it didn't work. And why not?"

Harry nodded, knowing where he was headed. "Because I wasn't alone."

"Exactly," Ron said triumphantly. "You couldn't get rid of us even when you tried. You think any of those Death Eaters stick around Volde-Voldemort because they love him?"

Harry's eyes flickered up and then down again. Ron kept talking, but a little faster, as though covering for that lapse in wording.

"Of course they don't! If they weren't scared out of their knickers, they'd split like spiders when a basilisk's hissing around. _He_ doesn't understand why we'd go with you, and he _can't_. He's always going to underestimate your friends, Harry, because he doesn't have any."

Harry continued to stare at the floor. _Love, again_. That's what Ron was talking about-the key to defeating Tom. Everyone kept saying that. Maybe they were right. Maybe they were _all_ right. But if they were, it didn't make his job any easier. "He won't hesitate to use you all against me. He's already trying."

Ron hitched a deep breath. "Yeah, well, so what? We've survived this long. I mean, I can't speak for Luna, but Hermione, Neville, Ginny and me _and_ Fred and George aren't going to quit now."

Harry's blood ran cold. "Ron, you can't tell them about the Prophecy."

He shook his head. "I have to tell 'Mione. And you ought to tell Ginny at least, if not Luna and Neville. They risked their lives for it, too."

"It's too dangerous. And Neville . . . well, I dunno. Maybe he has a right to know. But then again, maybe it will just make things harder. I keep wondering if that's why his parents were tortured for so long, to find out if he was really the One and Tom made the wrong choice."

"Blimey, Harry. You've been thinking too much."

"Not much else to do around here."

"Yeah. Just get beat up or poisoned, I guess."

Harry grinned. "Something like that."

"And to think all I get is too many brothers and a curfew," Ron said mock-mournfully.

"I'd trade it in a heartbeat."

"You don't have to. You're coming to the Burrow next week!"

Harry brightened at that and the last hour of Ron's watch was spent chatting lightly and catching up. All the tension was gone between them, and Harry no longer felt so desperate. He'd just have to let his friends help him and trust them to be careful. And Hermione was right about that, trusting came very hard for him.

A knock came on the door downstairs, and the house descended into silence.

"Oh, that must be Ginny, then."

Harry gave a start. "Ginny?"

"Your next Weasley bodyguard." Harry heard this with a great degree of concern. His room was a disaster. One of the Weasleys had obviously tried to tidy up, but the others had made themselves at home and there was even more trash than before mixed in with the dirty clothes. And Harry himself hadn't showered in . . . how long? He panicked a bit when he couldn't remember.

The door was opened downstairs and a deep voice rumbled.

"That's not Ginny," Ron said and stood. He pulled out his wand and motioned to Harry to stay back. Harry's stomach turned to stone. He pulled out his wand and followed Ron to the bedroom door. He opened it a crack and they could barely hear Aunt Petunia speaking.

"Oh," Ron said with relief as the deep voice began again. "That's Bill. They must have skipped Gin. She won't be happy about that. Oi! Bill, we're up here! Everything's fine! Harry's awake!"

"Glad to hear it," Bill called up. "But I've got some work to do down here first. I'll be along soon enough."

Ron turned to Harry, puzzled, then called back down. "Hurry up, Bill, I'm starved!" He turned from the door with a frown. "I'm already sick of this room and I'm only here for six hours. How do you stand it?"

Harry shrugged. "Well, it's better than the cupboard. I try to keep it in perspective."

Ron grinned. "Hey did you hear that the World Cup is going to be in Spain next year?"

"How would I hear about that? So are you going to go?"

"I wish!" Ron said fervently. For the next ten minutes, they talked Quidditch, as though there was no Dark Lord threatening to disrupt the normal things of life at any second. Finally, Bill stomped his way up the stairs. Harry listened, thinking to himself with a grin that all the noise from the Weasley brothers had probably driven Petunia quite mad.

"Hey Harry," Bill said easily as he entered the room, carrying several parchments and a small leather pouch. "How are you feeling, mate?"

"Much better." Harry watched with interest as Bill sat down at the desk. "What have you been doing downstairs?"

"Talking with your aunt. Dumbledore has been trying to reach a solution to all the trouble we've been having with the wards and your family. It hasn't been easy. Petunia and Vernon-that sodding pig-have been trying to kick you out ever since the last attack."

"But I thought they were Obliviated."

Ron shook his head darkly. "They were, but it only made them worse."

Bill agreed. "They're concerned for Dudley's health, which we all understand. He doesn't seem to be doing well."

"Oh, come off it," Ron railed and stood up. "Dudley's a git and he deserved whatever he got." Harry had to refrain from nodding. "That's why I knocked his lights out first thing when I got here. Fat git."

"Well, nevertheless, the only way we could get them to continue to host Harry in their home was to make a few financial arrangements." Harry's stomach dropped. He knew this was going to happen: the Dursleys were blackmailing the Wizarding World. "In two days, we'll move Dudley and Vernon to a new house across town, a slightly larger home with a bathing pool. In return, Harry may stay here for another week. But that is the only agreement we could come to. Next summer, Harry, you'll likely be staying somewhere else."

Harry flushed and fought conflicting emotions. Leaving the Dursleys was a dream come true, but then, how embarrassing that his only relatives wished him dead.

"You'll be with us, Harry," Ron crowed. "Dumbledore won't have any excuse next summer since you can't come here." Harry nodded, feeling the pressure ease a bit. "Hey, Bill, how come you're here? Where's Ginny?"

"At home, fighting with Mum, of course. She was supposed to relieve you, but Mum's railing rightly at her about her being alone with Harry in his bedroom for hours on end." Harry flushed, jumped up, and started haphazardly picking up dirty clothes. He was relieved that Ginny wasn't coming. Thinking of her sitting there, watching him drool in his sleep, counting the dirty clothes on the floor, guarding him from failing wards or the Dursleys or whatever happened next . . . he didn't need that.

Ron snorted. "As if! This is Harry and Ginny we're talking about, not Fred and Angelina!"

Bill chuckled as he looked at the papers in his hands. "Come on, Ron. A teenage boy and a teenage girl locked in a bedroom for six hours? What mother in their right mind would agree to that?"

Ron barked out a laugh. "Bill, but this is Harry! He wouldn't know what to do with a girl alone in his room if she threw herself into his lap, naked!"

Harry froze and then flushed a slow, furious red.

"Oi! Shut that fat trap of yours! That's my little sister you're talking about!"

"Mine, too, you prat!" Ron shot back. "And I wasn't talking about Ginny throwing herself into Harry's lap na-"

"Bloody right you weren't! And that goes for you, too, Harry!" Harry froze in the middle of dumping a dirty sock into the waste paper basket, only halfway knowing what he was doing. "No one thinks about my little sister that way, got it?" He nodded nervously, completely blocking all thoughts of Ginny, dressed or otherwise from his mind.

"Right."

Ron cackled. "I'm tellin' you, Bill, you're barking up the wrong tree. This is Harry we're talking about!"

Harry frowned at Ron, starting to feel resentful. He wasn't that hopeless, was he? After all, he had been kissed by the prettiest girl in school.

"Right," Bill said, a bit suspicious still. "Well, anyway, Ginny's not coming and that's that. Now, since you're up and around, Harry, I'm going to do the healer's blood test on you to make sure the potion has had time to work itself out of your system. Won't hurt a bit. Just a prick." He held out his wand and Harry walked over, holding out his hand. There was a small stinging sensation and then a spot of blood turned up on the small piece of paper Bill had laid on the desk. The blood was absorbed by the paper almost immediately and the paper turned a bright orange. "Ah! Just what we were hoping for. Looks like you're back to normal, Harry. Actually, from what I've heard, you look better now than you did before. Guess all that sleeping helped a bit.

"So, that means you don't need a bodyguard anymore. And the Dursleys should leave you alone until your birthday tomorrow, when Vernon and Dudley will be moved to the other house. Then it will just be you and Petunia for a week before the Order moves you. How's that sound?"

Harry nodded, surprised to hear that his birthday was so soon. He'd been asleep for almost five days. "I'm sorry you had to be pulled away from work to do this, Bill."

Bill laughed. "You're practically a Weasley now and Mum'd have my head if I didn't help. Although, I have to say that she's none to happy to hear about your long hair. She says I'm a bad influence on you."

Harry grinned.

"Yeah, what is up with that hair, anyway," Ron spouted. "You look like a completely different person."

Harry shrugged. "I dunno. Just can't leave to have it cut. And it actually sort of behaves this way, doesn't it?"

"Quite weird, but yeah. I guess I kinda like it."

"Have to get back, Harry." Bill stood and gathered his things. "Come on, Ron, let's Floo together so Mum won't worry. You know how she is."

"Do I ever! And Fred's getting as bad as she is. Hate to leave you now, Harry, but it won't be long before you'll be at the Burrow. Hang in there." He got up to follow Bill out the door.

"Bye, Harry," called Bill back over his shoulder. "Let me know when you want to get an earring, too!"

"Yeah. Ginny likes earrings on guys, too." Ron grinned and ducked a blow from Bill just as he shut the door behind him.

Harry frowned to himself, trying to push the idea out of his head that he cared what Ginny thought one way or the other. Ron was really carrying all of this too far. Hadn't Harry just tried this with Cho? And it hadn't worked out at all. He just wasn't cut out to be a boyfriend. Boyfriends had to deal with crying girls and kissing and things that Harry wasn't ready for, especially not now, when any kind of distraction could prove fatal to someone around him.

After a much-needed shower and a quiet breakfast downstairs alone, Harry started tidying up his room a bit. Someone had rummaged through his school things rather vigorously. Harry wondered who until he flipped through one of his Defense books and saw remarks in Fred's handwriting scrawled throughout such as, "Should've tried this one on Umbridge" and "Wonder if Filch would outlaw this?"

Hedwig arrived shortly afterward, having stayed a few days with the Weasleys. They'd insisted on caring for her as well. Harry felt a pang of guilt and decided to spend a few extra minutes cooing at her and smoothing her ruffled feathers. She still seemed a bit worried about him.

"I'm all right, girl. What's that you've got?" He sat back in the desk chair and let her dig her claws into his the knees of his jeans. She perched up there, looking as smug and content as a cat as he petted her. Harry laughed and pulled the parchment off of her leg after only a moment's hesitation, thinking of the Portkey incident.

It was another letter from Lupin.

_Harry,_

_I sincerely hope that you are feeling better now. It has been a hard enough summer without all the extra duress you have been under. Because of all the interruptions, we are looking toward other means to further your education. You should be receiving help soon._

_You have handled yourself very well, Harry. Sirius would be proud._

_Remus_

Tears stung Harry's eyes without warning. That last line almost felt like a cheap shot, but he knew Remus meant it to be encouraging. Would Sirius have been proud of him? Harry ran his fingers over Hedwig's feathers gently and felt that ache inside him return. He'd almost forgotten, with all the Weasleys here, that he had been so lonely all summer. Now, he remembered.

After a measly lunch alone, Harry returned to his much-improved room and pulled out a parchment. He intended to write Hermione and apologize for everything. Ron was right; he needed his friends.

The doorbell ringing took him by surprise, and not pleasantly so. Harry slowly stood, pulling his wand out of the waistband of his jeans. He remembered Remus' promise of further help to come, and hoped that the wards would hold this time. No matter what, Harry promised himself (and Ron) he wasn't going outside the house.

"Harry, would you get the door?" Petunia's rather strained request barely floated up the stairs. She was scared. Dudley was still in his room; he hadn't made a sound all morning.

Harry moved to the top of the stairs quickly and saw through the window a large, brown van parked in front of the house with the lettering of UPS on the outside. _A package, then._ Harry jogged down the stairs, searching his mind for some reasoning as to why he should open the door at all. Would Dumbledore send him a message this way? Would Muggle mail be safer than Wizarding mail?

Harry didn't think so, and he again hesitated at the door.

"Hello?" he called, not opening it. "Who is it?"

"Special delivery for Harry Potter." _Special delivery?_ That sounded suspicious, like something picked up off of a Muggle television show. Harry's hand tightened on his wand. Then a whisper caught his ears. "Harry? 'S that you?" The voice sounded familiar. "It's me, Tonks, in disguise!"

With relief, Harry unlatched the door and grinned at Tonks, who was holding back the glass door as a very attractive, muscle-bound twenty-something man in uniform. She was carrying a medium-sized box under one arm.

"Wotcher, Harry!" She said with a smile, then dropped her voice an octave and tried again. "I mean, Wotcher, Harry. Does that sound better?"

"It's great. What's going on?"

"Oh, poor Remus sent me. He just can't get a break. He desperately wants to come, but no one will let him near you. Too dangerous because of last time, you know?" Harry nodded reluctantly. "Anyway, he's got a book here for you to study, with some notes he's put inside. He says it might be the key to everything." She handed him the package with a hopeful look in her eyes. "You are all right, aren't you, Harry? You were very brave in that fight against the Death Eaters, but you should have stayed inside, you know? That's what _we're_ trained for."

"I know, and I'm fine, Tonks, really. Shouldn't I sign something?" She looked at him questioningly, the feminine tilt of her head looking a bit funny on a man. "Usually, they make you sign a computerized ledger when you get one of these."

"Oh. Right!" She discreetly waved her wand and a ledger appeared in her hands. "Kingsley warned me about that and I forgot."

Harry signed the computerized pad and smiled at Tonks again. "Good to see you, Tonks. Have a great rest of the summer."

"Yeah, hope to see you sometime again soon. Although, actually, I guess I really don't. If you need me out here again, that probably won't be a good sign."

Harry nodded and stepped back inside. "Thanks."

Tonks smiled and said in a deep voice. "Have a fine day, then, sir." She winked and turned back to the van.

Harry closed the door and locked it, relieved that for once, a visitor hadn't brought him to a near-death experience.


	9. Bloody Draco

**Chapter 9:_ Bloody Draco_**

Harry opened the package when he was back up in his room, carefully and slowly, still not sure that he should be doing it. Ron's words kept coming back to him, about how Harry didn't trust anybody and it was going to cost him one day. "Shouldn't've trusted Moody in Fourth Year," Harry muttered. _No_. If he failed to do what he was supposed to do, it would more likely be because he trusted the wrong people, not because he _failed_ to trust. Only time would tell which it would be.

Harry shook his head and pulled a book out of the box. It was a thin paperback titled _Procclumency-Not just for Hippie-Witches Anymore_ done up with lavender and pink swirly designs on the front. Harry flipped it over to see a moving picture on the back of a healthy-sized woman with long hair in braids and a ring on every finger. Her eyes were squinted in a smile and her curving mouth seemed echoed in the second and third folds of her chin. Harry studied her for a minute, thinking he'd never seen anyone quite like her before. Then he read the short blurb beside the picture.

"My friend, Evangelina Wickham, turned down my efforts to publish her memoirs for years, until now. She was the founder of the 'Procclumency for All' American movement in the Sixties and pioneered the projecting of happiness for those with lives that have been far too draining or fraught with difficulty. These techniques are enjoying resurgence among Wizarding Psychics and Psychologists, who enjoy being able to help people grasp immediately at a better life. Read and use her techniques in your own life and find out why Procclumency is not just for Hippies anymore!"

Harry was puzzled. He flipped open the inside cover of the book and noted that it was indeed published back in the mid-eighties. The editor had obviously been erroneous in thinking that Procclumency's resurgence would bring it into the mainstream. From what Harry had seen, the Wizarding world didn't take to new things very well.

He flipped through its pages, noting the chapter titles of: _Healing with Happiness,_ _Dealing out the Doldrums_ and _Confunding the Cruciatus._

Harry stopped at the chapter on _Confunding the Cruciatus_ and scanned the first paragraphs:

_It's never smart to assume someone is completely healed from a curse as painful as the Cruciatus. It may leave no outer marks on the body, but it does leave them on the mind. Many patients who suffered under the onslaught of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named and his followers were treated for nerve and muscle damage, but were unable to overcome the psychic aftermath of the pain._

_Procclumency has been used successfully by me and other trained Procclumists to relieve mental suffering and can, in some cases, even reverse the damaged thought processes produced by the curses. You might be asking yourself, 'how can thought processes be damaged?' Prolonged pain can burn out the connective tissues in the brain, effectively short-circuiting the normal thinking process. Thus they are trapped in the thoughts that fit in the narrow loop of healthy tissue. Of course, some have a narrower loop than others._

_Some people simply lose memories; some of them lose personality; and some become incapable of normal life, living in depression and isolation. Others are so damaged as to be mentally incompetent. Procclumency can feed them new thoughts, healing thoughts, that will bring relief and start widening that loop again. I've proven it to many skeptical colleagues, and I can prove it to you, too!_

Harry had first thought of himself, but the effects of the Cruciatus on him had been limited. His immediate afterthought was of the Longbottoms and all that they had endured. Was this slightly-dotty witch saying that the Longbottoms could be healed by Procclumency? And what exactly was Procclumency?

Harry pulled a folded parchment out of the bottom of the box, noting the familiar script of Lupin as he opened it.

_Harry,_

_We are becoming regular correspondents these days, aren't we? I do hope you think of me as someone you can trust and someone you can talk to if you need it. I know Sirius held that place in your heart, but we must go on and do as we can since he is no longer here._

Again, Lupin's words hurt, but Harry continued reading.

_I sent you this book after having a sudden inspiration and speaking at length with Dumbledore concerning it. I had heard of this obscure branch of healing arts when I was in school, from your mother, no less. She was hardly the type to be interested in new fads, but always felt horribly for those who were incapacitated by torture in the war. She talked for some time about being a mediwitch, before things grew to be so very dangerous for her and Prongs._

_This book wasn't hers, I'm afraid, and I don't know that she would endorse it, as it is rather silly, but it was the only such tome I could find on short notice. And it does seem to give enough of the basics for you to understand and to practice._

_My thoughts are thus: Occlumency is the better choice for defensive posturing against Voldemort's attacks on your mind. However, this type of defense is difficult and a time-consuming art to learn, as you have no doubt discovered. Many wizards and witches are simply not able to do it. Occlumency came easily to me because of the great measure of things I was forced to hide during my lifetime. I suspect that Severus was the same way._

_Your personality, Harry, is splendidly different from mine and one that I would think is not naturally disposed toward learning Occlumency. I do not say that you can NOT learn it. In fact, looking back on the recent attack on Privet Drive, I find myself wondering if you didn't dodge the majority of curses by Sensing, albeit unknowingly. However, we do not have the luxury of time to explore this right now. Continue your efforts at Sensing and at clearing your mind, both of which will help you. And Occlumency will eventually become the shield you need it to be._

_Until then, Procclumency may help._

_The plus side of your personality, Harry, is that you are a person of great and varied emotion. Despite seeming like a downfall at times, it is a strength that can be used against Voldemort, especially in the circumstance you now find yourself in: being connected to him through your mind. He has used this connection against you, through the pain in your scar and the visions. I say now, use it against him._

_Dumbledore apprised me that it was your thoughts of Sirius which forced Voldemort from you when you were possessed in the Ministry._

Harry broke off from reading to grimace. How many people knew about that? He had told Ginny for some reason, but that didn't mean he wanted everyone to know.

_So much the better. Procclumency is the projection of your thoughts and feelings into the mind of another. I would not be surprised at all to find out that you are naturally inclined toward it, as your mother was. If you are, and you are able to disturb or, even better, harm Tom by projecting your feelings and memories of love and goodness onto him, who is the very essence of evil, then you will have an advantage._

_Read this book and follow the directions in Chapter Two: Laying Out the Logistics. Besides having quite a gift for alliterating her chapter titles, this witch shows the benchmarks of being a good teacher. You should be able to make progress immediately._

_After you arrive safely at the Burrow safely next week, I will come by and discuss the text with you. I hope it will prove to be as helpful as I think it might._

_As always,_

_Remus_

Harry felt a grim smile on his face. Did Voldemort feel pain through their connection from him? He'd never considered it before, but it was quite possibly true. So then, if Harry were to be near Voldemort and not only feel strong, loving things but also to project those things onto Voldemort . . . .

Yes. It might give him an advantage, a desperately needed one.

Harry got right to work, reading voraciously, sometimes laughing out loud at the witch's strange ideas, but often finding something to grasp onto and absorb it into his thinking. He heard distantly as Vernon arrived home, Dudley emerged from his room and all three of the Dursleys gathered downstairs in the kitchen without him. He couldn't hear what was being said, but surely it was discussion about the agreement they had wrought from the Wizarding World-the blackmail, to be more to the point.

Harry paused in his reading. If Bill was right, then tonight was his last night in the house with Vernon and Dudley. They would be leaving tomorrow for the new house, on Harry's birthday no less. There were probably wizards hard at work right now getting the new house ready, re-placing wards that would be needed to protect Petunia. Even though Harry wouldn't ever live there, as long as Petunia named Harry's home as being with her, then the blood magic was in place. He would be safe at Hogwarts during school, and wouldn't be adrift of the magic until next summer, when Petunia and Vernon had decreed that he would not return home.

Harry breathed in deeply, trying to force out that small, but deep pang coming from the part of him that still wanted the Dursleys to care for him, even just a little bit. He'd ignored it for years, but recent events had forced him to recognize it-and try to stomp it into nothingness. Things were never going to change between them now.

As dinnertime came, Harry felt reluctant to go downstairs. He was perfectly happy when he heard the catflap open and a piece of bland pizza was put through on a plate.

"Is it-?"

"Homemade," came the lifeless answer.

Harry, relieved, inhaled the pizza as he finished reading.

Really, Procclumency was very simple magic. It started out the same way as Occlumency, with clearing the mind. Evangelina likened it to putting up a projection screen in your mind, like the ones used in the Muggle School Harry had attended. Then, instead of trying to block everything out, choosing one memory and focusing on it, almost as if you were going to cast a Patronus.

Of course, the author seemed sure that her readers wouldn't have been able to produce a fully-corporeal Patronus, so she just cast that out as if it were useless information, but Harry grasped onto it eagerly. At last-something he was good at.

The exercise she suggested was focusing on your chosen memory and filling it with colors, sounds, smells and emotions until it seemed as real as possible. Harry closed the book, laid back on the bed and thought. What memory should he choose? _One that will cause Tom the most pain, obviously. One of love, then._

Harry shook his head. _Love._

Why did this keep coming up? He just didn't have that many memories where love was a defining emotion. He'd had surprising moments when he knew people had cared for him, and even times where people had risked their lives for him, but despite all of this-and to his deep shame-he could not remember one single person ever telling him that they loved him.

Surely his parents had before they died. But in memory, the closest thing he'd had was . . . well, when Mrs. Weasley had held him in the infirmary after the third task. And Hermione had kissed him on the cheek, once. And Cho . . . well, that wasn't love, though. He wasn't sure what it was, but it wasn't love.

Harry had loved Sirius; he knew that now. The practical proof of that was that when Harry had been possessed that time in the Ministry and had thought of Sirius, it had hurt Tom. He wished he could remember exactly what he'd been thinking, but it was all hazy. All he could remember was being suicidal more than anything else, wanting to join Sirius and his parents no matter what that meant.

Harry blinked his stinging eyes. That wasn't a particularly good memory.

_Now, let's see . . ._

Sirius had listened to him rattle on when he was panicked about the events in his fourth year, had written to him, reassured him and risked capture for him. He'd even stood up to other wizards when he thought Harry needed protection. But were any of those powerful enough memories to play in Tom's head, to render him incapacitated?

Harry didn't think so. None of those things had made Harry realize at the time that Sirius loved him, not really. He just hadn't known what it meant, not until it was too late.

Harry sighed despondently. _Maybe just a happy memory, then._ He knew those to be powerful from his Patronus charms. Perhaps happy memories that involved someone close to him-not just winning Quidditch matches. _Maybe Gryffindor winning the Cup first year? No._ It had to center around someone. _Ron, maybe. Or Hermione._

Harry frowned as nothing particularly strong came to mind. _Maybe after the first task, when Ron was speaking to me again and everything seemed suddenly so much better?_ _No_. There was far too much fear and negative emotion attached to that, even after Ron had come around.

_Maybe from second year, then. . . maybe when Ginny woke up in the Chamber?_ Harry remembered the powerful feeling of relief and of happiness that had drowned him when he knew that she was okay, that she wouldn't be kicked out of school, that he had brought her back to her family safely.

Harry slowly smiled. He had felt more than his own joy that day. He'd felt the joy of her brothers and her family, as well as the pride of Dumbledore in what he had done. _Yes, that would be painful to Tom. Very, very painful._

For the next hour, Harry closed his eyes and painted the memory with as many details as he could remember. It wasn't nearly as hard as he had expected. That day had been the worst of his life, waiting with the Weasley brothers for word about Ginny. Every moment before he descended the Chamber had seemed so long and dreary. And then the events of the Chamber itself.

Harry could remember every word Tom had said to him, but he wouldn't put that in his memory. He put the death of Tom in his memory instead, Fawkes' tears, and then the awakening of Ginny back to life. And finally, the return to Dumbledore's office and the unrelieved feeling of triumph and rightness that had ruled in Harry's heart as the Weasleys welcomed him with tears of relief and joy and . . . love. It _was_ love, wasn't it?

That would cut Tom to the bone.

Just before bedtime, Harry wrote Hermione a short note-another apology. He hoped she would forgive him for trying to exclude her. By now, maybe she already knew about the Prophecy from Ron and hopefully she understood why he hadn't told her himself. It wasn't as if he could write to her about it; she had to know that it wasn't safe. He wanted to talk to her about it as soon as he could, to see what her thoughts might be. Maybe she would echo Ron's sentiments about the unknown power Harry had. Or maybe she'd come up with something he hadn't considered. But he'd listen. After all, his first rule was: _Listen to Hermione._

Harry sent Hedwig off and fell back into bed, exhausted for some strange reason. He'd just spent the better part of five days sleeping, but was ready for more. He yawned, shaking his head, and then took off his glasses.

As he rushed toward sleep, in the darkness of his own mind, he brought up the gray screen and readied his memory for Procclumency, if necessary.

"Harrrrrrrrrryyyyyyyyyyy . . ."

The harsh whisper seemed to go on forever, pulled almost out of meaning like taffy stretched in a sweet shop window. Harry groaned and turned over, half-convincing himself it was a dream.

"Harrrrrrrryyyy Pottttttterrrrrrr . . ."

Harry sat up with a gasp to complete silence. He jumped out of bed and shoved his glasses on, wand already in hand. He jerked his head around to peer into every dark place in the room, trying to stifle the irrational fear that his sleep-blurred vision was hiding something. He kept blinking until finally, the shapes of furniture came clear, but there was no one in the room-and nothing out of the ordinary.

But the voice had sounded like it was right in the room with him. Harry turned around, his heart pounding. The clock read 12:01. _Wait-my sixteenth birthday_. Instant dread flooded him.

"Harrrrrryyyyy . . . Can Harry come out and play?" The hissing voice, coming from somewhere beyond his closed door, sent shivers down Harry's spine. He hesitated, his mind scrambling for some answer other than Tom, and finding nothing. _Why_ had he sent off Hedwig? It didn't matter. No matter what happened, he wouldn't leave the house.

"Mummy?" The pitiful croak came from the direction of Dudley's room.

Harry went for his door, and found it locked. He tried to force the knob, as if it was just a mistake. It wasn't.

"Dudley! Dudley? Can you hear me?" Harry waited.

"Harrrrryyyyy . . ."

Moaning sounds came from the other bedroom; the disembodied voice was sending Dudley up to the rafters. Harry, however, was beginning to think it sounded horrifyingly familiar. He beat on the door with his fist.

"Dudley! They can't get inside the house! Just let me out of here, will you?"

"MUMMY!"

Harry beat harder on the door. "Get OUT of bed and OPEN THIS DOOR, or I'll curse you MYSELF!"

"Hush that yelling, brat!" Petunia spat from behind the door, her footsteps sounding down the hallway to Dudley's room. Harry spun away from the door in frustration. He could still hear his aunt as she crooned, "Diddyems? Did the nasty boy frighten you?"

"Harrrrryyyyyyyyyyyyy . . . come out, come out, wherever you are . . ."

His blood ran cold. He heard that voice in his nightmares whenever he saw Sirius fall through the veil.

". . . ickle baby Harrrrryyy . . ."

A flood of hatred burned in Harry's gut. Bellatrix Lestrange was here. _But- no._ He couldn't go outside, not even for revenge. He could hear Petunia trying to console the hysterical Dudley.

"Stop it, Mummy! Make him stop!"

Harry placed one hand against the door, speaking as loudly and forcefully as he dared. "It's not me, Aunt Petunia! They must be out front! Let me out of this room and I'll make sure they don't hurt you!"

Then heavy footsteps approached from the other direction and Harry backed away from the door. The locks clicked and the door swung open. Uncle Vernon-face purple, hair rumpled, fist raised-charged into the room and grabbed Harry's arm painfully.

Harry debated using his wand as he was pulled bodily from the room, out into the dark hallway, which rang with Dudley's cries and Petunia's hushing, and stumbled down the stairs. He caught a glimpse of two dark figures through the window, far enough away from the door to be indistinct. It was the third figure, the one mostly in white, crumpled between the other two that gave Harry a feeling of absolute terror.

It was happening again-but this time it wasn't a vision. This was _real._

Harry barely had time to register his fear before Vernon, talking furiously to himself, had dragged him to the front door. Harry darted to the side window and tried to make out details about the pitiful figure on the ground. It could be anyone. But was that blond hair showing up against the Death Eater robes?

_Wait-_

He turned to see Vernon throwing open the dead bolt.

"NO!" Harry lunged at him. "Are you CRAZY?"

Vernon punched a meaty fist into Harry's chest with surprising strength, yelling, "WHAT YOU DESERVE!" Harry gaped as he fell backwards, scrambling, trying to force air back into his lungs, making another wild lunge to shut the door-

_WHAM!_

Harry saw stars as his head slammed into the doorframe. He grasped out at something-anything, finding his Uncle's bathrobe at last. The world spun around him for a long minute as he tried to listen to his Uncle's frenzied muttering . . . something about the last straw.

Then hands grasped him and he was thrust forward, tripping and falling through the open glass door-falling for a long time until the cement stopped him. He sat up, his head reeling and foggy with pain, clutching his wand and trying to reconcile himself to the fact that he'd just been tossed out of the house like an ungainly sack of garbage.

The door was already slammed shut and the locks bolted before Harry could clear his head enough to see what was in front of him.

Death Eaters-this time just two of them.

They stood, black robes billowing, white masks glowing uncannily in the lamplight-two figures with wands extended, pointed at Harry. And between them, fallen to his knees on the asphalt, was-

"Potter," the figure groaned. "You idiot!" Draco Malfoy lifted his face and even from a distance, Harry could see bruises and blood mixed there. "I _told_ you to stay in the _house!"_

Harry climbed to his feet, stunned by the wretched, pained quality to Draco's voice. Draco was at the Death Eaters' mercy, his hands obviously pinned behind his back. But why? Wasn't he almost a Death Eater himself? They didn't expect Harry to care about _Malfoy,_ did they? Or was this just an attempt to mess with Harry's mind? To get him to trust Malfoy?

"Professor Snape was right," Draco spat blood on the ground in front of him. "You always do think you're above the rules."

The Death Eaters were silent. But Harry got the impression they were enjoying this.

"What do you want from me?" Harry asked tersely.

"Put down your wand and Lucius' boy lives," said the tall Death Eater on the left. "Refuse and you have yet another life on your conscience." The voice was familiar and Harry stared, trying to ignore the pounding in his head. His mind seemed to have frozen up.

"Poor wittle Potter," the other Death Eater-Bellatrix-chimed in. "Can't decide if this piece of trash is worth your life or not? Let me give you a hint. It's not." Bellatrix hissed and then kicked Draco. Draco collapsed forward in pain, struggling feebly to get to his knees again.

"I _said _put down your wand." The unknown Death Eater stepped forward and bent to press his wand to Draco's temple. Draco went still. "Your hesitation will cost him everything."

"Oh, come now," Bellatrix pouted. "At least give Harry until the count of three, so his conscience can plague him even longer after the death. The Aurors won't be here for at least another minute."

Harry stared, wondering what they had done to his guards. Draco's eyes were boring into him.

"Okay, fine," the other Death Eater agreed. "I'll count to three, then. _One."_

Harry's eyes narrowed as he calculated.

_"Two."_

It wasn't as if he had a choice.

_"Thr-"_

"I'm putting it down!" Harry exclaimed, jumping forward a bit. He started to bend down, slowly . . . so slowly. "See?" His eyes traveled to Bellatrix, back to the unknown Death Eater and finally down to Draco's stunned face. Harry's wand was almost to the ground. He took a deep breath and looked up. The Aurors would come. But for now, it was all up to him.

The wand touched down.

Harry lifted his hand and began to straighten up. Bellatrix cackled.

"Now back away from the-"

But Harry wasn't there anymore. He was on the ground, rolling, wand in hand.

_"Crucio!"_

He dodged to the left, throwing a spell on the way. _"Repellos!"_

The tall Death Eater flew back high in the air-

But Bellatrix had her wand on Draco. _"Avada Ke-"_

_"Expelliarmus!"_ Harry's curse cut her off and she flew back, her wand catapulting toward Harry. He reached up.

"_Accio wand!"_ she screeched as she landed, and the wand shot back to her. He watched angrily as she snatched it from the air. He'd missed his best opportunity-

_"Concidus!"_

Harry was on the ground, ducking the other Death Eater's spell before he even thought. The curse shattered the glass door; a scream came from inside.

_"CONCIDUS!"_

Harry was in motion, heaving himself out of the way again, but Bellatrix's curse was too quick. A red-hot ribbon of pain sliced up his right arm, and he hit the ground rigid with agony.

_"Stupefy!"_

Harry barely noticed the unknown Death Eater fall.

Bellatrix cackled and then she was gone-Apparated away. Two Aurors ran into view, one red-haired, the other limping oddly.

"Sorry, we're late Harry," George called to him, holding his wand on the stunned Death Eater. "Mad-Eye fell asleep on duty-"

"I _said_ I wasn't asleep!" Mad-Eye was surveying the street, his magical eye whirling busily, checking for more Death Eaters in hiding, probably.

"Well, it's true that one eye was still open," George said with disgust. "But then why didn't you wake me instead of the other way 'round? Anyway, the door at Mrs. Figg's was hexed shut. Simple spells, but it took a while to get through all of them," he said apologetically. "Sorry, Harry. We almost missed all the action."

"Action. Hmmph . Just stick around, boy. You alright, Harry?" Mad-Eye growled in his direction.

"Bleeding a bit, but I'm fine." Harry, now sitting up, spared a glance at his arm where the sleeve of his dull, gray pajamas had been burned almost completely off. Underneath, a horrifyingly long, jagged cut ran from his wrist all the way up his arm, the skin open and curling red around it, blood oozing out. It looked . . . wrong and it hurt like hell. Even as he watched, the pain seemed to sink its teeth in deeper.

"Bleeding a bit, did you say?" George said, eyeing Harry's arm with a pale face. "That's like calling Voldemort a bit mad. We'd better tell Dumbledore to send Fawkes." George turned to go back to Mrs. Figg's.

"Don't need ta.' He'll know."

"Well, we can't just sit here and watch Harry bleed to death." George stopped, frustrated, and watched as Mad-Eye reached down to pull the mask off of-

"Kingsley?" George rocked back on his heels, looking more pale and rather shocked, but no more surprised than Harry. Kingsley Shackelbolt worked at the Ministry with Tonks. He had helped them innumerable times before, hadn't he? But there was no mistaking the large, dark-skinned Auror. "How-?"

"You know how," Mad-Eye growled. "He's a no-good, belly-crawlin' Death Eater spy that's been workin' the Ministry on both sides, that's how! He always was the first to use underhanded tricks on duty."

Harry couldn't make his mind work right. Kingsley had attacked him? He pulled his bleeding right arm in to his side, wand still clutched tight, and pushed himself unsteadily to his feet. It was becoming increasingly clear to him that he would never know with certainty who to trust.

"But we don't _know_ he's a spy, do we?" George asked quietly. "He could be under the Imperius. Right?"

Mad-Eye didn't answer. Harry stumbled over to Draco, dead set on getting some answers. Draco was up on his knees again, watching Harry with a pained but sarcastic grin. "The hero triumphs again."

"Hardly," Harry muttered.

"Get his wand, Harry," Mad-Eye barked at him, apparently not worried about Draco's condition at all.

Harry unsteadily pointed his wand at Draco. Draco's eyes widened. Harry hesitated, then said quietly, "Finite Incantatem."

Draco's hands fell loose and he began stretching out his sore arms.

"Are you going to attack me now?" Harry asked Draco casually, letting his wand hand drop back down by his side.

"And why would I do that?" Draco drawled through bloody lips as he sat back on his heels, rubbing at his wrists. "You're the only one who can kill that bloody, arrogant prat who fashions himself as the Lord Voldemort, right?"

Harry blinked a few times, finding himself staring at the dark-purple bruise on the other boy's cheek. He wondered who gave it to him. "I thought you said you were going to kill me."

Draco smirked. "Well, I was a bit angry at the time, because no matter what that bastard Lucius has done, he is, after all, my father. But mostly, I was posturing for those idiots I call friends. You wouldn't understand it, it being one of the more delicate parts of being Slytherin." When Harry just kept staring, Draco pulled his gaze away. "Let's just say that this summer I was shown the light, rather painfully."

Harry was stunned to realize that he believed Draco. In fact, if he thought about it, he knew that Draco wasn't to blame for his father being one of the Dark Lord's most trusted servants. In fact, despite being his father's lapdog for years, he was actually in a very dangerous position.

What if Draco had decided that he didn't want to serve the Dark Lord now? How far would his father push him? Harry thought he knew. Most likely the end result would be something like turning Draco over to the Death Eaters for sport and then being brought to be killed in front of Harry, in shame. _Well, then_. _Here we are._

Without another thought, Harry switched his wand to his left hand and held out his right. "Wand, please, if you've got it." Blood splattered on Draco's shirt. They both stared at Harry's hand, where blood was dripping from his fingertips, running in rivulets from the long, burning cut on his arm.

"You're bleeding on me, Potter," Draco said with revulsion evident on his face. "Don't you even carry a handkerchief, or are you a complete savage?" Draco was reaching into the pocket of his smudged, bloodied white shirt pocket.

"No, I don't usually carry a handkerchief in the pocket of my pajamas. I must have missed that day in charm and etiquette class," Harry snapped back, starting to get irritable now that the fright was over.

"Well, you certainly missed the charm part. Take this; you're bleeding like a stuck pig." Draco handed him a carefully folded handkerchief. "What the hell was that spell, anyway?"

"I have no i-"

When the tug came behind his navel, Harry stopped breathing. _Portkey._

Whenever he recalled that moment afterward, it seemed to stretch on forever. But it couldn't have-there must have been only a split second for him to take in Draco's pale, horrified face, and his desperately whispered, "No," before Harry was jerked roughly into the darkness.

Harry fell forward, landing hard on his hands and knees in a cavernous, marble-tiled hall. Despite a wild scramble for protection with wand in hand, Harry fell to the floor in agony when the first spell was cast.

_"Crucio!"_


	10. Despair, Disillusionment and Draco's Dad

**Chapter 10:_ Despair, Disillusionment, and Draco's Dad_**

As the white hot pain began to fade, he realized he'd forgotten what it felt like . . . what it had felt like . . . if there was a time before the pain had come.

Slowly . . . so slowly, there was cold beneath his back and around him, voices with words that he could hear over his chattering teeth and over the pain-the pain that was slowly seeping from his body, leaving behind an empty, trembling shell. The voices were familiar, but faint from where he lay.

"Severus, your visit is . . . unexpected."

"Yes, I can see that."

"I am surprised that Narcissa did not ask you to wait in the foyer."

As the two continued on in stiff voices as if he were not laying there, half-dead, he began to wonder if he _was_. Maybe the pain had simply obliterated him. It took an amazing amount of effort to open his bleary eyes and still more effort to keep them open.

The large, circular hall was half-lit by torchlight that glinted and caressed the golden accents around the mirrored walls. They reached from ceiling to floor, and made it impossible to tell the size of the room. _Enormous_. An enormous, blurry, shiny room, and one that he was sure he'd never seen before. How had he gotten here?

Over by the open door, the two dark, vaguely familiar figures stood side by side, still talking.

"I was going to speak with Draco briefly about Advanced Potions class for this year but I was told that he was unavailable. I became concerned and sought to speak with you, but I see that your schedule is rather . . . full."

"Yes, it is at the moment."

There were also two other dark-robed figures standing closer. They were as blurry as the distant figures, but he could see that their wands were pointed at him. Death . . . Eaters . . .

_Death Eaters._ The words broke through the haze in his mind.

_Voldemort-Tom. The Portkey._ His breath started to come in gasps. He was at Malfoy Manor, being tortured by Draco's father who was nothing more than a madman. And now Snape-Snape had showed up, just in time to see Harry completely humiliated.

Impotent fury swept through him and he fought to calm his breathing, fought to ignore the pain. He managed to roll to his side.

"So you've finally caught, Potter," Snape positively purred. "About time, Lucius. I was beginning to wonder if your threats were empty after all."

He could feel all their eyes on him, shivering wretch that he was. He didn't want to show any more weakness-_dammit!_ But everything hurt: his muscles had been seared by the curses; his throat was raw; his face was bruised and wet with tears. The pain in his arm reached all the way to the bone now, and blood was everywhere: pajama pants, floor, smeared all over his abdomen. He had no idea where his shirt was, or his wand. Everything was blurry.

_My wand. Oh, if only I could have my wand_. He longed to die fighting, not curled up, cringing like an animal.

"Lovely specimen." The voice was cruel. "Very strong. I think you missed most of the screaming, didn't you?"

"I believe I did. Most unfortunate. I'll never forgive myself." Harry cursed Snape with trembling lips.

"I'm sure the Dark Lord will repeat the performance."

"I'm sure. _Accio wand,"_ Severus hissed.

Lucius was staring at Snape. "But why would _you _want Potter's-"

Severus pointed his wand at Lucius. _"Obliviate!"_

The other Death Eaters were drawing wands. "What the hell-"

Snape whipped around to them. _"Oblivate magnus!"_

They froze, wands still on him. There was a breathless silence as Snape hid the wands and recovered his usual sneer, which Harry could hear in his voice.

"Could you kindly point your wands in the direction they were meant to be pointed-away from me?"

"How dare you?" Lucius' voice rose an octave in outrage, but not to Severus. "What possible explanation-? No matter. Get out, you idiots!"

"Yeah, but . . ." the first one looked at the other. "You promised us-"

"There is nothing wrong with my memory," Lucius said icily. "There is, however, a great shortage on my part of patience in dealing with idiocy. There's plenty of food set out in the dining room for you to graze on. I won't need you again until the Dark Lord arrives." They stiffened up, bowed slightly and left the room.

Snape walked closer to Harry, who barely kept from cringing at the feel of his glare. "You mean, of course, _after _you let him know that Potter is here."

"Why, Severus . . . of course. But after all, the boy only just arrived twenty minutes ago."

"Then you aren't . . . done with him yet?" Snape sounded hesitant. "He hardly looks as if he will survive another round, Lucius, and I don't think it would be in your best interest to take away the focus of the Dark Lord's plans just yet."

The resulting pause sounded uncomfortable and Lucius' voice was soft but menacing when he next spoke. "Then we must ensure his survival, mustn't we? What could be the solution to this awkward problem, I wonder? Perhaps, you might have a spare potion to offer?"

Snape spoke his next words with a grim smile, reaching deep into his robes. "To lengthen his torment? Hm. We understand each other so well, Lucius. But, of course. I think you are aware of how insufferable he has made my life at school and the lives of those who are in my house."

Then, to Harry's shock, Snape was kneeling by him, his back blocking Lucius' view, his face searching Harry's intently.

Harry only just managed to keep himself from grabbing at the man who was now his only hope and choked out softly the only coherent thing that came to his lips. "They took my glasses."

Snape was still for a moment. Then he took a vial in his hand, held it to Harry's lips in a familiar way and spoke so quietly that barely any breath left his mouth. Harry swallowed the potion and listened.

"Albus sent me. Aurors are coming. Escape, Harry, do not stay and fight. You will need your wand."

Saying so, he tucked it inside Harry's right arm where it lay against the ground, so that it could not be seen.

"And your eyes."

He kept the now empty vial at Harry's mouth and discreetly pulled out his wand, pointing it at Harry's eyes. _"Occulis lux lucis." _Snape's face grew clearer instantly, and for the first time, Harry saw the black eyes without hate.

"Take heed: when the burning ends, your strength will be gone."

"What is that you're giving him, Severus?"

Snape hid his wand and put the stopper back on the vial in one smooth motion, then stood and sneered down at Harry, his eyes cold and hard once more. "Pepper-Up Potion with a touch of Heal-All Tonic, which I carry at all times, given the Dark Lord's penchant for the Cruciatus. It should help Potter last a bit longer. But now that he knows what I am, he must not survive the night." He almost looked as if he might kick Harry, but finally strode away, his black robes swirling.

"Excellent point," Lucius said amiably. "I'm sure I don't have to convince you further, but the boy does deserve a great deal more from me than this. This pain was just the first installment of an account which is long. over. due."

"Of course. He's taken a great deal from all of us, including sixteen years of the Dark Lord's reign."

"That is nothing." Lucius said coldly. "The boy sent _me_ to Azkaban. _Azkaban!_ And furthermore, somehow, under your very, very, crooked nose-he managed to taint the devotion of my only son, whom I can no longer claim as my own. Oh. You look surprised to hear that your favorite student was swayed from the Dark Lord's service. Did you not know?"

"I am as shocked as you are, old friend. I had no higher hopes for Draco, no greater ambition than that of a place by his father's side."

Harry's eyes slid closed. He didn't care what they said. Numbness had stolen over the pain and he could feel nothing but heat-blessed, burning heat-that was now flowing through his veins. Smoke came out of his ears. But whatever had been in that vial, it wasn't just Pepper-Up Potion and Heal-All. It was something much stronger. Every second was feeding him life, strength and hope.

_Keep him talking, Snape._

Lucius waved a hand impatiently. "We will find another to put in his place. It is but a nuisance. You will, however, be glad to know that I did manage to use him one last time, to prove that Daddy always knows best. My only son is dead to me now; I will be forced to kill him if I see him again; and this _boy_ is the reason why."

Lucius' voice had grown suddenly calm again and Harry tensed, expecting another curse.

"Then I will alert my Lord of Potter's presence here." Snape was leaving? Panic clutched at Harry, and he forced a plea for help to die in his throat.

"No! Severus. He deserves my full and complete retaliation. I have not had not enough time-"

"Forgive me, Lucius, but a personal vendetta of this type against the boy can only be settled by the Dark Lord. I do not think he will be pleased with your program thus far. At the very least, he would wish to be present. I will return shortly."

"Severus!" Footsteps rang away down the hall. "Severus!" For the first time, there was a note of desperation in the cold, smooth voice and Harry felt cold fear trickle down his back. "Damn him. Damn him to hell! I shall send him there in short order myself!" The large, ornate doors slammed shut.

Harry was alone with Lucius.

He sucked in a deep, shuddering breath and forced down the panic. He could do this. His body was burning with strength; he could see without his glasses now, and he had his wand.

"Did you hear that, Potter?" Lucius spat. "The Dark Lord is on his way. Our time has been cut short." But Snape wasn't going to Tom, was he?

Harry didn't waste time replying. Slowly, he pushed up on his hands and knees, keeping the wand hidden-the end cupped in his hand, pressing the length of it against his tender forearm. Despite the potion that warmed him to an alarming degree and made him somewhat numb, it still hurt to move. But his plan didn't include much moving, not after he got to his feet.

"Oh, very good," Lucius said with mild surprise. "Pick yourself up, Potter, by all means, do. It always helps to face degradation and pain like a man instead of a sobbing little boy, although for my purposes, I was rather enjoying the latter."

Harry didn't answer. With a slight grimace, he stood. As the world tilted under him slightly, he saw what he could not see before-the floor was one giant mirror as well.

The dizzying reflection of the ceiling on the floor was blocked only by three things: his pajama shirt-where it lay ripped and crumpled on the floor; a small but intensely red pool of smeared blood; and himself. It was dizzying and difficult to look across to Lucius where he stood, reflected many times against the wall on that side of the room, and on the floor as well.

"Do you like my dueling room? Quite ingenious, isn't it?"

Harry said nothing. With a whip of his wrist, he brought his arm up and pointed his wand directly at Lucius.

Lucius' eyes went wide. He scanned the floor quickly and then looked back up at Harry. "Well done. But let's see if you can you still use it? I know how an extended Cruciatus can make you feel." He smiled and started walking to Harry's left, one among so many figures reflected in the mirrors. "Nauseous, dizzy. It's difficult to stand at all, isn't it?"

Harry's stomach heaved. Was the room moving under his feet? Lucius suddenly stopped and spun a curse-

_"Concidus!"_

With a grunt, Harry attempted to dive. His body crumpled to the side. As his head hit the floor, agony overtook him. Lucius laughed.

It went on and on-the loud echoes of cruel laughter, the rolling pain and his helplessness. Harry finally ended up on his knees, retching.

"Disgusting boy. _Crucio!"_

Back turned and eyes closed, Harry didn't have a chance.

It would hit him any second now, the bone-shattering pain would begin and he would be screaming. But time had seemed to slow and it hadn't hit yet. It was coming, speeding for his shaking body-he could almost see it . . .

And then suddenly, he knew _exactly_ where he had to go.

He fell to the right, on his injured arm. The curse went past him, hit low on the wall, bounced up off the floor, streaked right by Harry on its way to the ceiling, struck and headed straight for Lucius.

In a haze of pain, wand in left hand, Harry muttered, _"Repellos."_

But Malfoy already had up a shield that absorbed the first ricocheting curse, and then the second one sent by Harry, though the force of both set him back a few paces. Harry closed his eyes, finally feeling the screaming pain settle into his right arm, trying to fight the nausea.

Lucius was righting himself, glaring with newfound venom. Harry decided it was time to use Malfoy's own room against him.

"Oh, come now," Lucius said in a honeyed voice. "Surely there's more to the supposed hero of the Wizarding World than this. Can the Boy-Who-Lived be overcome so easily?"

Right arm clutched tight against his abdomen, Harry pressed himself up to his hands and knees again, promising himself that soon the pain would be over.

"Oh well done. You're up. Now, Potter, take your last shot before I send you into oblivion. I am nothing if not a gentleman."

Harry sat back on his heels and lifted the wand in his left hand.

_"Serpentsortia Sextus!"_

Lucius pulled up a sneer even as a long snake grew out of Harry's wand. "Is that the best you can do, Potter?" It writhed on the floor and then blurred, and five more were beside it.

_"Attack,"_ Harry hissed in Parseltongue and they immediately moved toward the pale-faced Lucius, their reflections on the walls moving like a slithering army.

Lucius aimed at the snake nearest to him. _"Reducto!"_ The snake blew apart in an explosion of skin and green smoke, and the next two quickly followed. He pointed at the fourth, but Harry saw with grim satisfaction that the fifth and sixth were nearly on him.

_"Expelliarmus!"_ he shouted, left-handed again.

Caught between the two snakes and a curse, Lucius snarled in frustration, managing to blow one more snake apart before being hit by the curse. He fell back to the wall, his wand winging its way toward Harry.

"Halt!" Harry hissed at the last snake as he caught the wand in his left hand. It stopped just short of biting the man, who immediately jumped to his feet, snarled and made a go for Harry, eyes wild.

_"Petrificus Totalus!"_ Harry flung the curse and scrabbled out of the way as Malfoy's momentum carried him past, hitting the floor as stiff as a frying pan.

Silence fell as the echoes halted, broken only by Harry's erratic breathing. He pulled his right arm in again. The potion kept his body mostly numb, but the agony in his arm was all too real. And it seemed to him that his body felt cooler than before. _Not good._ But he'd beat Lucius Malfoy, beat him with one of Tom's own tricks.

Harry smiled grimly and gripped both wands. He wiped at his face and pushed to his feet, taking a moment to trying to regain his balance. With a sigh, he walked over to Malfoy. He kicked Malfoy over with some effort and looked at his pale, petrified face.

Harry put his wand back into his right hand, where it felt best, and slowly lowered the point until it connected lightly with Malfoy's forehead. He left it there for ten . . . fifteen seconds, enjoying the panic in the man's eyes. Then he noticed a line of blood slowly flowing down his wand. He was bleeding again, not that he'd ever really stopped.

Harry watched Lucius watch the blood, and he watched it, too, as it rolled on, staining his wand all the way down, a dark maroon testament of Harry's agony.

The swollen drop seemed to catch right at the end, suspended, and then it dropped soundlessly to Malfoy's face, exactly between his eyes-a single red dot, growing slowly in diameter as more drops fell.

"Tell me. Is that pure enough for you, Malfoy?"

Then the dot began to spread. The blood collected and slid to the side, pooling in Malfoy's right eye.

"Bet that burns like hell. Too bad you can't blink."

Harry smiled somehow and turned away. One snake still sat, awaiting his command_. "Under the door,"_ Harry hissed in Parseltongue. _"Is there a guard?"_

The snake slithered under the door and Harry quickly followed, stopping just short of leaving the room as his reflection suddenly came into focus. Under the torchlight, he got a glimpse of his half-naked, pale, bloodied and bruised body and jerked his eyes away. With a black eye and bloodied mouth, he almost hadn't recognized himself.

_When did that happen?_ His mind was fuzzy after the first Cruciatus, but Lucius' goons must have had a go at him at some point. Maybe it was irrational, but it bothered Harry-he wanted to at least remember getting his injuries.

The snake returned.

_"No guardssss . . . there issss food nearby . . . and the sssssmell of fear in the air."_

"Thank you." Harry waved his wand_. "Finite Incantatem."_ The snake disappeared.

Harry unlocked the doors and eased them open just a bit, peering into the long, dark hallway ahead. Malfoy Manor was big. Torches lit the walls at eye level, throwing moving shadows across the high ceiling, almost as high as Hogwarts'. The stone there was gray, broken by an unending line of enormous Wizarding portraits, reminding Harry even more of Hogwarts.

He lifted his hand and spoke: "_Accio Nimbus 2001."_ He focused briefly on Draco's newest broom. And then, he waited.

He waited for what seemed a very long time, watching the blood drip from his arm, counting his heartbeats, listening to the sounds of distant voices echoing across the hall. Once he turned to check on Lucius, who remained unmoving. After a time, he recalled the Disillusionment Charm and knocked his wand on his head. The familiar trickling sensation was heightened by a sudden drop in his body temperature.

"No," he whispered, feeling the pain increase. He looked down through his body and saw a faint yellow glow in the mirrored floor. "Damn." He'd never done this one before and didn't have the energy to try again, but if they looked closely enough, they'd see him. He continued to peer through the shadowy hall.

Just when he thought he saw something heading in his direction, just when his heart jumped with sudden relief, an immense pain jarred his thoughts and he was on his knees, gasping, clutching at his forehead in an instant.

Tom was here. And Tom was _happy._


	11. Bloody Manor

**Chapter 11_: Bloody Manor_**

Harry heard the whooshing sound of the broom and reached out just before it lobbed itself into his head, using his injured arm, of course. A fresh wave of agony caused him to drop the broom and he bent over, clutching the arm to his chest. Nausea kept him completely still. There were echoes coming from down the hallway now, voices raised in anger and he listened as he waited, incapacitated for nearly a minute-a Disillusioned, yellowish figure shaking on the mirrored floor. Death Eaters were coming; Tom was here; and the potion was wearing off-things were _not_ looking good.

Eventually, the more familiar pain from his scar overrode everything else and Harry could straighten, though very slowly. With a sigh, he took his wand, forced the pain down, and tapped the broom to Disillusion it. This time, the charm worked completely, rendering the broom camouflaged into the mirror behind it. Harry climbed to his feet and laid it back against the wall carefully, noting the place. He could _not_ lose it. Without it there would be no escape from this house of stone and shadow. A shudder ran through him.

Harry's next problem was his wand. Bereft of his usual robes, or even Muggle pants, his mind was uncomfortably blank on options of where to keep his wand, and Lucius', safely. His mind was well and truly muddled now, whether from the pain in his scar, or his arm, or from fatigue, or whatever. There was nothing for it. He tossed Lucius' wand through the doorway and into the hall, wishing vehemently that he knew how to destroy it, or knew of some deep, dark hole to throw it in. He tucked his own under his arm.

As he fumbled at the waist of his pajama bottoms, a flare of dizziness took his breath. Harry stopped, took a deep breath, and leaned back against the cold, mirrored wall to steady himself. His fingers found the string wound through the waist of Dudley's cast-off pajamas and tugged. He'd added the string to the threadbare things himself to help keep them on. As it was, they still rode ridiculously low and Harry flushed dully as he jerked them up and re-tied the string tight enough to hold his wand in his waistband. He tried not to think of how many people had seen him dressed like this tonight.

The voices were growing more distinct now, and seemed closer. Snape had gone to Tom, obviously, because he had to, but would he now try to misdirect the Death Eaters? Harry wouldn't bet his life on it-he had to get moving.

As Harry grabbed the broom, a slight tremor shook him. Though his head was better, coldness flowed from head to toe and the pain from everywhere and nowhere had suddenly blossomed. It was going to be _difficult_ to fly. He settled the broom between his legs, sending a quick "_Scourgify!"_ to clean the floor of his bloody footprints. Then he pushed off from the ground, taking it easy and floating slowly through the door upwards toward the ceiling. As he headed far above the torchlights, the air around him grew dark with quiet shadows and Harry relished the feeling of safety.

Ahead there were a surprising number of archways and support beams crossing the ceiling. Harry eased up a bit higher until he was floating above all but the topmost support arches in the ceiling and then carefully eased himself forward. One fall would finish him.

Footsteps were clanging eerily about the hallway now. Suddenly below there was a familiar dark figure with limp, black hair striding towards the dueling room. Behind him were five more Death Eaters, all masked. Harry tried to turn and watch, but his balance was far too precarious.

In a moment, Snape's voice rang out with impatience. "Potter's gone. I should never have expected-Get Lucius up. _Get him up, I said."_

Several voiced babbled and then there was a clear, _"Finite Incantatem!"_

"Where is Potter?"

After a moment, Lucius' voice drawled out from deep within the room. "He summoned a broom of my son's. The idiot must be flying around the mansion somewhere. Find him! _Accio wand!"_

Harry shut his eyes briefly. Why hadn't he been more quiet? They didn't know he could do a Disillusionment Charm, but it wouldn't be long before they'd figure it out and he'd be an easy, slow-moving, yellow target.

Far below, the figures caught up and strode ahead of him. Lucius was wiping at his face with a handkerchief and talking in a low, furious voice to Severus. Then he turned to the Death Eaters behind. "Check the rooms, you fools!"

The five backtracked and split into the rooms. The first large door was thrown open with such a loud clang that lights exploded in Harry's head. He veered off course and hit the wall. Eyes closed, only the sensation of falling registered and Harry fought to control the broom. With a painful jerk, the broom recovered and flew upwards again, but Harry's head was ringing so badly that he could not continue.

Ahead, there was a small atrium where one wing of the house intersected the main hallway. The ceiling of the atrium was elevated above the smaller hallway, and where the two met, a decorative carving of gargoyles jutted out in a semi-circle between two enormous columns. Behind their heads was a small, dark space that looked wide enough to hold a person.

Harry flew into a wash of light and noise which he ignored the best he could and made for the carving. No spells were being thrown-_so far, so good_.

Up close, the gargoyles glared malevolently at the floor with surprising realism as they perched in a semi-circle over the entrance to the smaller hallway. They didn't move, though Harry half-expected them to.

He aimed the broom up over their heads and came down to rest in an absolute nest of cobwebs. Spiders were skittering all around him as he slid clumsily off his broom and sent up a mist of dust. He pulled at the cobwebs, coughing quietly into his hand, tasting the blood he had forgotten was there, willing himself not to pass out. The effects of the Cruciatus were gaining on him, and the noise around him seemed to have a horrible, elevated effect, though the potion still subdued the pain somewhat. Otherwise, Harry had a strong suspicion that he wouldn't be moving at all.

After a time, the noise from below eased and the pain, except for the scar, died down. He was safe for now, still bleeding invisibly, still in pain, cobwebs clinging to him everywhere, but he didn't care. After sneezing a few times quietly but painfully, Harry thought to try another whispered, _"Scourgify."_ The dust disappeared and he could breathe much easier.

Below, it was easy to pick out the sounds of those searching for him. They had apparently expected him to be able to get a lot farther than he had. But it wouldn't be long before they searched the high places. Surely the Malfoys had other brooms.

Harry needed to get out of this-

A flaring pain made Harry grasp at his head and stifle a cry. Tom was livid, and it felt like knives were piercing his skull. It was a half a minute before the pounding stopped. Harry's arm throbbed and warm drops slid down to his elbow. He looked to the stone below him, where red drops were gathering, starting to pool. It might start out Disillusioned, but as soon as it left his body, the blood became visible again.

How much could he possibly have left? There must have been a replenishment tonic in the potion that Snape gave him. Maybe that was why his body had burned so badly at first. He wondered at that, settling against the stone wall. How had Snape known what to give him? How had he known to come at all?

It must have been George. George had seen the cut before the Portkey had been activated. And Mad-Eye as well.

But then again, perhaps . . . perhaps this had always been the plan if Tom got hold of Harry. Snape would feign wanting to join in, or actually would join the other Death Eaters in the torture if need be, but then manage to find an excuse to give Harry something to help him. It made sense.

And Snape had done it so well that Lucius hadn't suspected a thing. Neither had Harry. He had been questioning Snape's loyalty to Dumbledore right up until the time that he had Summoned Harry's wand. And even after that point, Harry had questions. It was confusing, to say the least: was Snape's behavior toward him at school genuine or feigned? Which of his attitudes here was the real one-the one who was disappointed at missing the torture, or the one that was willing to risk his life to help Harry? Could it be both? Did Harry really want to know?

He sighed and laid his head back against the wall, turning it slightly to avoid the tender area. He had no idea which Snape was the true one. It was just as confusing as Draco's sudden turn around, if that's what it had been.

It had seemed like Draco had been trying to help Harry, but then-_what an idiot!_ He had sent an owl, his own owl, to warn Harry? As if his father or the other Death Eaters wouldn't notice? Even Ron had recognized that owl-

_No . . . wait_-Draco wasn't that stupid. He was cunning, if nothing else. That owl must have been sent by Lucius, a precursor to the handkerchief portkey incident, which Harry was still convinced that Draco hadn't known about. At least . . . he didn't think so.

Then Harry couldn't think at all.

Pain seared across his scar and his whole body convulsed in response. Hate, powerful hate was digging in, taking root and-

Harry arched against the wall. Tom was trying to see-

_No!_

Tom was prying, pushing, scrabbling in Harry's mind. He wanted to know where Harry was-he wanted _him_-his mind-

He was trying to possess him again.

Harry scrambled through the horrendous pain for that one memory-

Amid the furious onslaught which felt like a thousand of Snape's Legilimens curses, it seemed so fragile, so precious-

Other memories were leaking out of Harry's mind so quickly that he barely saw them: shoved against the wall by Dudley; sobbing in the corner; Hermione petrified; _"Kill the spare."_; Sirius falling; Lucius' cruel grin; _"Crucio" _again and again_-_

Harry lifted his wand. _"Procclumis!"_

The memories stopped; the gray screen went up; and Harry was entering the Chamber of Secrets. Ginny lay on a heap on the floor, looking pale as he turned her over.

Another jolt of pain as Tom rejoiced over the image and the misery Harry had felt. But then it all changed.

Harry was defying Riddle's younger self, hearing Fawkes' beautiful song and fighting the basilisk. Fawkes healed him, and Harry stabbed the diary. Riddle died, horribly and painfully. Harry was triumphant. Ginny awoke. And then Ron, the rest of the Weasleys greeting him, so thankful. Then Dumbledore's pride in him-that warm flood of relief and-love.

It filled Harry's heart until the ache became overwhelming. The pressure left his head in a sudden lurch. Disoriented, Harry clapped his hands over his ears when a wailing screech filled the hallway, echoed in his throbbing scar.

The sound went on and on, until the agony in Harry's head overtook the blessed memory. He faded, as did the voice. Then perfect silence reigned. Seconds later, Harry stirred against the stone, tucked his wand back in his waistband, and gripped the broom shakily. It was now or never. He stood, though bent over by the inclined wall, and mounted the broom. Tom was still reeling from the Procclumency attack and the Death Eaters were probably stunned by his weakness.

So Harry flew.

Not very fast and not very stylishly. Instead, he settled for safely and in a straight line, past the small atrium and heading in the direction Snape had come from. Harry didn't want to take any chances of getting trapped into a back corner. He could still feel the warm blood dripping down his arm and the chill settling deep in his bones. He forced himself to keep both hands on the stick, though the weeping blood and the twinges from his scar made it difficult.

As he drew closer to a larger atrium up ahead, voices grew clear.

"Find him!"

"My Lord! I don't understand. What has he-"

"Imbeciles! It does not matter! He is here! _FIND HIM!"_ The roar and the clattering of feet on the stone floor echoed endlessly around the hallway and Harry clenched his teeth. Just past the stone arch ahead, Harry could see Lucius striding out of into the hallway. He was walking jerkily, every movement agitated. He raised his wand.

_"LUMOS MAXIMUS!" _A bright, white light shot down the hallway and burned away the shadows in front of and around Harry. Except for one-his shadow.

_"There!"_ Lucius cried out.

Harry panicked. He jetted to the wall where an arch across the hall, held his broom vertically and slid down onto the cold stone, angling his feet to fit. He had to make his shadow disappear. Carefully, he leaned back against the wall and eased down until his knees almost met his chest. The drop below was stunning. Harry pressed his feet hard, one in front of the other, wedging himself in place between the wall and the arch, feeling that he might pitch off at any second. But he didn't. The stone arch slid upwards in front of him, casting a thin, dark shadow on the wall.

Harry sucked in a deep, but quiet breath, feeling the warmth of his folded-up body. He shivered. By looking down past his knees, he could see Lucius peering toward the ceiling, his wand light growing even brighter.

"I saw something moving over there! Find him!"

Harry definitely wasn't moving now; he wasn't where Lucius was pointing; and he had his back to the wall, giving almost no room for the light to cast a shadow behind him. But Lucius knew Harry had a broom, that he was injured and that he was trying to escape. It was only a matter of time before he figured out why he couldn't see him as well. _Only a matter of time._

Harry slowly moved his head to the other side, feeling his sense of vertigo increase greatly with the movement. A stream of Death Eaters were walking with wands raised, peering dumbly at the ceiling of the ridiculously long hallway. It wasn't a simple matter to see anything in the space littered with archways and decorative carvings and broken by several atriums.

"Slowly, slowly," Lucius purred, now adopting the attitude of a predator closing in on his prey. "He is here, somewhere. Go slowly. Nott-get those brooms now."

**_"FIND HIM!"_** roared Tom from somewhere ahead. Harry's head was speared with new agony. His leg muscles, forced into such awkward use, started to tremble. He reached below and clung to the arch with a white-knuckled hand. The other hand, his right, held on to his broom.

He could hold on for a while longer, just a little while. Beyond that, he couldn't bear to think.

Then he felt it-a little warm trail of blood running down his arm. Bleeding again.

In seconds, drops were hurtling down through the bright white, betraying him like soundless cries, sacrificing themselves to splatter darkly on the stone floor far below. Harry slowly pulled his right arm in and cradled it, feeling the warmth of his own essence slide across his stomach. The broom he laid along the arch, very carefully, and held it with his left hand. Apparently, he just wasn't going to get a rest.

An oily voice just below Harry grated on his nerves. "Lucius, perhaps he is capable of the Disillusionment Charm." _Snape._ What was he _doing? _"If he has, then we may never catch him," he went on.

"Always so eager to give up, aren't we, Severus? Always so eager to tattle, still the eight-year-old child who was locked in the basement for a month by his parents."

Snape sneered. "Always so ready to face the truth, unlike some of us, Lucius, who like to bend reality to play little mind games. Potter has gotten away, which doesn't speak well of your dueling ability, now does it? I left you with a cowering, injured, defenseless boy and I come back to see you as helpless as a Longbottom."

Blood was beginning to gather at Harry's elbow, and feeling as if it might go plunging off to land on Snape's head at any second. Why did he have to stand directly below?

Lucius lowered his wand and moved forward until he was face to face with Snape. "You are in my manor, Severus. Never forget that."

"Of course not. And yet, isn't it ironic that Potter has managed to turn the vast grandness of your own manor against you?"

Harry's grip was weakening. If they didn't move, then he would be taking off right over their heads.

"Ironic, yes. But he will be found and brought to the Dark Lord as my prize. Something you have been distinctly unable to accomplish in your five bumbling years at the same school with the brat."

Harry slid the broom into position and started to straighten his cramped and trembling legs. Long before he was ready, his left hand loosened its grip and he fell sideways. He sprawled out in the air for long seconds, dropping like a stone until he got his broom under him again. Then it kicked in and he zoomed ahead, faster than he dared to go before. Had he made any noise? He didn't think he-

_"Potter!"_

_"Get him!"_

Harry bent low over the broom and ducked down under the remaining arches, followed by a volley of spells. He blew into the large atrium and veered around a chandelier that was as big as the Dursleys sedan. He flew dizzily around it, a glow of yellow circling the bright chandelier, feeling as if his head had been somehow left behind in the rush. Shouts came from all sides and spells blew in every direction, destroying walls, furniture-everything.

They couldn't see him, he was sure of it. But there were so many of them that he still had to dodge. Looking out as he circled, he saw that the atrium was surrounded by five rooms, each of a completely different nature. The one across from the hallway was the foyer, leading to the enormous front door. Two Death Eaters were stationed there, wands raised, watching the activity with masks off, their faces too blurred to make out.

In another room, Harry barely made out the form of Tom sitting in a chair, yelling something to everyone, striking out at the small, cowering figure in front of him. Harry looked at them so long that he veered away from the approaching wall only at the last second.

A flood of triumph filled him; Tom was so weak he couldn't stand. It had worked.

With a sudden clarity of thought, Harry shot for the darkest room. He cut right and dodged a green curse as he sped into what must have been the Malfoys' library. The darkness came, as Harry had predicted, from an enormous picture window full of the dark night outside.

"There!" Bellatrix screeched and several more shouts rang out. Harry's yellow light was easier to see in the dark and curses peppered the air. He circled the room just once, dodging as if he was in a Quidditch game, tempting fate and debating once more as to whether the glass would be unbreakable from the inside or not.

_Not,_ he thought.

He jerked back to the left, accelerated and at the last second, threw an arm over his face. There was a flash of red, an explosion of glass and a concussion of sharp pains from the front, and then he was out in the cold air, leaving loud alarms ringing behind.

He clung to the broom, shivering, grateful to be alive and whole. The wind rushed by as he soared toward the moon, watching the ground fall away at a steep angle. He soon leveled out and found himself high above the trees.

For some time, he thought he might black out-the buzzing in his head was so loud, and the pain, overwhelming. Tom was furious. The chill in his body let him know that the potion had worn off, and the shaking in his limbs agreed. Harry finally had to give in and hold his right arm in to his side, steering with his left. The cold air made his mind feel sharper. With clarity, he now recalled Snape's words that Aurors were coming to rescue him, and he almost turned around.

But Snape had also told him to escape, and without Harry, the Death Eaters had no leverage. Since Tom was too much of a coward to stay for a fair fight; he would have Apparated out by now. The fight would be clean and fierce, but it would be over soon. They could win without Harry, and since he was safe, there would be no reason to stay and fight. He just hoped they found out quickly that he wasn't there. Maybe Snape would find a way.

Harry noticed a roadway beneath him and started to follow it half-heartedly. Where was Malfoy Manor located, anyway? For some reason, he wanted to say near London, but then, he wasn't sure why he thought that.

If he could just get to London, he could find his way to number 12 Grimmauld Place. Someone should be there. Of course, there was something wrong in his thinking, but he was simply too tired to re-think it. The cold had gone beyond sharpening his mind to numbing it. So Harry followed the road, ignoring the trembling in his limbs and the way his eyes were closing on their own.

At least until he jerked awake painfully and found himself drifting lower, almost in a forest. How was he still flying? At least his scar had dulled down again.

When several roads joined the one he was following, he started to go faster-a wild, exhausted desperation taking over. His teeth were chattering. Just about the time Harry's left hand and face went numb, he saw the beginnings of the city.

Houses bulked together in neighborhoods and neighborhoods joined to make suburbs and suddenly, Harry was looking at the outskirts of London, at fog and tall buildings with twinkling lights and-

_The Underground? Paddington Station?_

With vague thankfulness for the Disillusionment Charm, Harry started to follow the landmarks until he found a familiar road near Grimmauld, one that Mr. Weasley had pointed out to him on their return trip from the Ministry. He was vaguely surprised that he remembered it.

The trembling exhaustion that had been coming and going for what seemed like hours took hold again. Harry found himself slowing down to a near stop as he turned onto the street. Narrowly missing a streetlamp, he nudged his way ahead until the houses at number eleven and thirteen came clear. He focused on the passwords in his mind and-nothing at all happened.

Harry lowered to the street and dropped with a clatter as his legs refused to hold him up. There he sat, heaving cold, relieved breaths. The air felt warmer here; the wind was still.

The pain in his scar had faded, but with the potion out of his system, the pains in his body had righted themselves. All of his muscles ached from the extended Cruciatus; his face and abdomen were bruised from blows, the back of his head from several meetings with the floor; and though the cold air had finally staunched the flow of blood, his arm was throbbing fit to be cut off. He didn't know if he could do this.

Taking another deep breath, he concentrated again, shoving his thoughts behind the gray screen in his mind, clearing away the desperation and latent fear. Instead, he focused on the words Lupin had had him memorize last summer, the location of the Order of the Phoenix.

And then, with a sudden, wonderful pop, the house appeared and Harry's face held a vacant, pleasant smile. Until he remembered whose house it was and the sudden pang made him double over, grimacing. _Sirius._ He wanted more than anything to have Sirius there, to yell at him for being stupid and yell at him for worrying him and then grouse around, sulking about being locked up. But no-it wasn't possible.

Harry sucked in a breath and looked up. He couldn't leave the house open like that. He needed to move-now.

He was going to have to walk up those stairs.

Weakness dragged at Harry as he made a supreme effort to move to his hands and knees. His right arm collapsed under him, nearly landing him on his face. He'd forgotten about it already. He tried again, this time with his slowly defrosting left arm alone and somehow pushed up enough to get his legs up under him. He stood like a thin reed in the wind, swaying with dizziness. With a leaning first step, he stumbled for the house.

Each step was harder than the one before and jarred his injuries painfully. But just as he started up the stairs, a strange light-headedness took over. He couldn't feel the ground under him, or the door as he reached for it. He felt warm and safe, as if he were floating on clouds.

The well-lit but silent house flickered in and out of his vision. Behind his eyes played a different environment on a gray screen-stone, with a large, grimy statue of Salazar Slytherin overhead.

He thought he might collapse, but the curious, light feeling buoyed him all the way into the den. There were signs of hasty leavings all over, in the over-turned chairs, the magazines scattered, and the fire that still burned. Ginny wasn't there. But then she wouldn't be, would she?

Harry stood still for a moment, swaying. "Hello?"

There was a muffled sound, but then only silence. Harry tottered over to the couch. As he sank gratefully, painfully into its depths-noting that everything around was wavering into darkness and stone again-a muffled, angry-sounding voice caught his ear. He couldn't call out, couldn't speak a word. Fatigue lay on him like a thick, wet blanket, weighting him down in the darkness.

Just before he drifted off, he thought of his Disillusionment Charm. He nearly laughed. Ginny must be hiding. He had scared her. His Procclumency had driven Tom away and now she was scared because she couldn't see him in this dark place.

With a heavy hand, he pulled out his wand, tapped himself and felt the cold trickles as he became visible once more. Several gasps sounded and footsteps headed his way.

_"Harry!"_

Ron's hoarse cry jerked Harry's eyelids back open and he looked up into the pale face of his best friend. Puzzled, he tried to speak, but couldn't. "Where the bloody hell are your glasses?" Ron croaked out after a moment.

"Out of the way, Ron!" Ron was moved bodily aside and then another freckled, red-haired Weasley took his place. This one moved so quickly that it was a few seconds before Harry knew who the red blur was. "Harry, is this your worst injury, here, on your arm?" Ginny looked at his face with fierce eyes.

Harry blinked slowly to say "yes." Ginny started wiping away at the blood with a soft cloth and he distantly heard her ordering Ron to get something. His arm hurt, and he wanted to tell her to knock it _off,_ that Fawkes should be here soon, but something was pulling him away . . .

He was fading, like he had once before, in the Chamber of Secrets. But this time, Ginny was alive and she was the one crying on him, healing him-not Fawkes. Harry wasn't sure if he had already stabbed the diary or not. He felt terrible, and terribly confused. Why was Ron here? He found just enough strength to whisper, "Ginny."

"What is it, Harry?" She was crying.

_No._ He wanted her to feel _better,_ now that she was away from Tom. Words finally came, pushed past lips that were numb with cold, "Ginny, I'm . . . so glad . . . you're alive . . ."

And then it was all darkness and pain and blood.


	12. Healing Harry

**Chapter 12:_ Healing Harry_**

_"Ennervate!"_

Consciousness crashed in like an ocean tide, in a tidal wave of voices and pain and thought that were dragged away before he could understand anything.

_"Ennervate!"_

It was gentler this time, pulling him from the dark. Voices were drifting in and out, completely meaningless. He wanted to sleep; why wouldn't just they let him sleep?

"Harry." One voice had separated itself from the others, suddenly clear and bright in his mind. "Harry, you must heal yourself."

He only had the strength to grimace slightly.

"The Concidus curse was developed by Voldemort . . ."

The name sent a jolt of electricity through him, forcing Harry to open his eyes for the first time. Everything was blurry. But hadn't he been able to see before, even without his glasses? _Why?_

"He's not listening!"

Rough hands grabbed at his left hand and pressed his wand into it. "Harry, _you _have to do the spell or it won't work! It bleeds you until you're too weak to do it, but you have to, or you'll die!" Ron's voice cracked on the final word, and he fell silent as Harry slowly turned his head to look at him.

Ron's face was blurry, of course. But now the events of the night were filtering back into Harry's mind: he could remember falling unconscious at Grimmauld Place. What were they telling him to do? Didn't they understand that he needed to sleep? After tonight, after Lucius . . . he _couldn't . ._ .

Harry's eyes closed and he gave in to the weakness swirling around him, dragging him down like a whirlpool. Darkness was closing in, and he welcomed it. Maybe Sirius would be there, in the dark . . . maybe his Mum and Dad, too.

Voices were arguing. _Why won't they be still?_ Ron's grip on his hand tightened and he leaned closer.

"Did you hear that, mate? The spell is _Salvos Ruttum; Resarcio Concidus._ That's an easy one for you! You could do it in your sleep!" He laughed convulsively. "And it looks like you might have to." His voice pulled away again, and his grip slackened. "He won't wake up! _He can't do it!"_

Harry forced his eyes open, his heart aching at the panic in Ron's voice.

"I am afraid he is too weak."

"He _must _do it, Albus! Believe me when I say there is no other way."

"Harry," Harry tried to focus his eyes past Ron's shoulder, where Dumbledore's purple robes had appeared. His voice was kindly and caring. "As always, we must rely upon you to do what we cannot. We have healed of your injuries what we can." For the first time, Harry felt around inside his cocoon of pain and realized that it was only his arm causing him such distress, severe enough that tears had glazed his eyes ever since he had wakened. "But this you must do on your own. It is a complex spell, however Severus assures me that you are capable. It is vital you repeat the words exactly. _Salvos Ruttum; Resarcio . . ."_

The Headmaster's voice drifted away as a sudden chill caught Harry in its grip. He shuddered and closed his eyes, feeling the darkness reach for him.

Then there was a noise and someone else was beside him, hovering over his injured arm. It was Ginny, crying out, touching his cheek in a somewhat startling way. But just as he began to enjoy the warmth of her hand, it was gone and she had collapsed beside him. "Oh, Harry."

He wanted to open his eyes; he couldn't.

It seemed like everyone had grown still around him, so still that he could make out her words-so soft and muffled that he didn't know if she meant him to hear them or not.

"If you die . . . if you die, I will be scared every day for the rest of my life. Don't let him win, Harry. Please. _Please . . ."_

Her words-and the fragile, pleading tone of them-shocked him. A feeble surge of protectiveness burned in his chest. Anger stirred. Inside the death grasp Ron had on his hand, Harry tightened his grip on the wand.

"That's it, mate," cried Ron, helping to point the wand toward Harry's injured arm. "Yes! Now say the words. _Salvos Ruttum; Resarcio . . ._

"Concidus," Ginny insisted. "Concidus!"

"Right. _Salvos Ruttum; Resarcio Concidus!"_

Harry settled himself to the task, immediately feeling a pressure mounting behind his lips. The words formed in his mind, and he wrestled to speak them. _Salvos Ruttum . . ._

"C'mon mate! You can do it!"

But he couldn't. His heart was thudding in his ears, slowly, so slowly. Every breath was a struggle. And the words just wouldn't _come._ It was as if speaking them would rip something loose from him, something that wanted to stay hidden and close and private. It was then he realized that he was very near death.

"Harry, if I let you die, Hermione'll kill me," Ron said hoarsely. "And Mum, too! Please . . ."

Harry frowned harder and concentrated until the gray screen came up in his mind. It was the only thing he could think to do. But the words . . .

Ginny was near him again, and he could feel her gentle breath on his cheek. His thoughts scattered like a dandelion puff on the wind. The pressure was gone.

"Just say it, Harry," she whispered. "_Salvos Ruttum; Resarcio Concidus_."

He pulled his mind in to focus on the words, seeing them against the gray screen in his mind. They were wholly formed, strong and purposeful, even as he felt himself becoming less so by the second. Soon, it was almost as if the words were holding him together instead of the other way around.

But there they were. The wand was in his hand; the words were in his mind.

He opened his mouth slightly. The syllables fell silently into the void around him. "_Salvos Ruttum; Resarcio Concidus."_

"Did he say it?"

"I think-I think-no-"

A breathless silence pressed in on him. Had it-

A sudden jolt of energy enveloped his arm. The numbness faded into searing pain that raced down the incision. He arched away from the new, hot agony. Maybe it was healing him, but it was forcing him back into the darkness and it all faded until even the shriek of voices around him disappeared.

Sometime later, he dreamed.

Harry actually dreamed a lot, about strange places he'd never been, places where he was just normal and nobody knew who he was. Places where he was nobody. Of all these places, his favorite place to dream was a beach. Not a cold, dark beach like those in England, but a warm, tropical, white beach-the kind he used to imagine that Dumbledore visited.

On this beach was nothing special, nothing that made it fantastic. It was sandy and hot, but cooled by breezes that traveled through the thick foliage inland, bringing tropical kinds of smells. Harry would lie on the sand, stripped to his shorts but feeling no more self-conscious than a child, peacefulness oozing out of him as the sun baked his skin until it was oddly, but pleasantly tight-feeling. He was alone, but he didn't mind that.

His arm didn't hurt. His scar didn't hurt. And the most wonderful of the wonderful things about this place was that he felt . . . safe. For the first time in what seemed like years.

Sometimes, as he lay there, dark things would begin skittering at the edges of his sight, memories that caused him deep distress. His heart would constrict, his breath would come in gasps and suddenly the quiet waves would heave with an unseen wind. Pain would start to surface and his arm would throb in time to his heartbeat. Then the beach would dissolve and voices blurred into the gray reality around him.

"He's waking up."

"I'm afraid it's not time yet. Headmaster?"

"No need to ask twice, Poppy. I think I'm rather enjoying this." Harry recognized those voices as the pain started to revive him. But before he could speak, a large, gentle hand was laid on his forehead and a familiar voice whispered, _"Procclumis."_

And then there was the beach again. Harry fell back on the sand, allowing the tension and pain to disappear, welcoming the respite. The clouds had dissipated and the sun was brightening again. Far away, somewhere behind the horizon, there was still a storm. He could see it-a dark, roiling presence that was moments from being ignited, but somehow held in check. He didn't want it to come; he might not survive it.

He closed his eyes against the glaring of the sun and ignored the brooding storm. How long of a time he spent like this, he couldn't discern.


	13. Silence

Chapter 13: _Silence_

When Harry awakened, the whole world was orange. At first, he thought the dream sun had burned itself permanently into his eyes, and worried accordingly, until he made out the moving posters on the wall. Almost immediately, he realized the orange accosting him wasn't just orange, it was jarring, insanely-bright, Chudley-Cannons orange.

The next second, the door opened and in stepped Ron Weasley, who exploded into yells as soon as he saw Harry. "Harry! You're-_Hey!_ _Everyone! Harry's awake!"_

There was cheering from downstairs, and a loud round of poundings and scrapings and stompings toward the stairs, followed by a thorough round of shushings. He was definitely at the Weasleys.

Harry smiled at Ron as his gangly friend closed the door and walked over, picking up Harry's glasses on the way and handing them over. "I knew you'd wake up as soon as I left the room, ungrateful prat." Harry put the glasses on and smiled to see Ron's face. He was lit up like it was his birthday and Christmas all wrapped up together on the same day. "How are you feeling?"

Harry pondered the question. He opened his mouth to answer, but stopped, shrugging instead.

"Does your arm still hurt?"

Harry looked over at it curiously. It didn't hurt-well, not as much, but there was a curious leftover ache in it, and it felt fatigued somehow. He frowned up at Ron questioningly.

"Well, Pomfrey managed to get it healed well enough, but you lost a lot of blood and it-well . . ." Ron's face clouded over. "I don't remember exactly what they said . . ."

Harry studied his flushed face, trying to discern how bad it might be, when the noise outside came to a head and the rest of the clan burst through the door.

"HARRY!"

Ginny was by the bed first, smiling shakily, her eyes bright with tears. "You're awake!" Harry smiled. Just behind her were Fred and George, Mum Weasley, Bill and Lupin, all grinning.

"Oh, we've been so worried," Mrs. Weasley was already wiping away tears on her apron. "You've no idea what it was like, seeing you on that couch like that, I just-"

Fred gently reached back for his mum. "Oh, don't mind her-"

"She just has to wail a bit-" George continued, moving out of the way.

"Now that you're alright." Fred pushed her over to sit on the bed.

"Well, it's just that we've been so worried," she began again.

"Don't over-exaggerate, Mum," George started.

"I'm not over-exaggerating!" She snapped back over her shoulder.

"No, you're just exaggerating," Fred countered.

Mrs. Weasley threw up her hands in a helpless gesture, but Harry noticed - with relief - that she had stopped crying. She got busy, straightening the covers around him in a way that made _his_ throat tight.

Ginny was watching his response with her quick eyes. "Do you want me to let Hermione know that you're all right now?"

Harry nodded eagerly. Ginny frowned and leaned in closer.

"Why aren't you saying anything?"

He blinked several times, and a frown settled between his eyes. A tight knot in his stomach had appeared, and it was growing bigger and more uncomfortable by the second. To tell the truth, he didn't know why he hadn't spoken yet, but with the whole Weasley clan now staring at him, he felt even less likely to do so.

"You _are_ okay, aren't you, Harry?" Ron stepped closer, sounding worried.

Harry nodded, less eagerly. The Weasleys all exchanged looks, much to his increasing discomfort.

"Well, then," Mrs. Weasley said, eyes bright as she stood up. "What are we all doing in here, anyway, crowding the poor boy? He needs to rest and you lot are exhausting!" She made a shooing motion and the group, complaining loudly, moved toward the door. "Especially you two," she gestured to the twins.

"Mum, it's not as if we'd-" Fred protested.

"-slip him a Nosebleed Nougat-" George continued.

"-or something."

"Yeah."

"Not when he's so off his game."

Mrs. Weasley turned red. "Nosebleed Nougat! Just for that, you two-out _first!"_

Fred and George cast a martyred look at Harry. "Always misunderstood-"

"Always vilified-"

"Ours is a lonely road. But if you do start bleeding again, just call. We have the Coagulation Cocoa Chews ready to test now-"

"Though we couldn't get Dumbledore to give you one-"

"And-"

_**"OUT!"**_

They grinned at Harry's slightly suppressed smile and left looking highly satisfied.

"Now, then, I'll start on lunch," Mrs. Weasley turned to Harry and went on as if nothing had happened. "Dumbledore gave me strict instructions to keep you in bed today. You've lost far too much blood to be put back to rights quickly. We can only give you that Blood Replenishment Potion once a day because of aftereffects of the curse used on you; and it's your body that still has to do the mending in between."

Harry _was_ feeling a bit dizzy, and the talk about blood didn't help. He closed his eyes tightly and tried to pull his thoughts into safer territory.

"All the rest of you Weasleys-out!" Bill ordered loudly to everyone else who had been hanging back. "We've got work to do."

"No we don't," Ron started in.

"We did our work this morning," Ginny finished, and Harry opened his eyes to see her idling nearby.

Bill stopped near the door and put on his best oldest-brother smile. "Putting fake dog rudders in Mum's slippers doesn't count."

"That was the twins!" Ron and Ginny protested together.

"Well, I should hope so," Mum Weasley began.

"Well, composing a dirty limerick to send to Percy doesn't count either," Bill continued. "Though I have to admit it was a right good one."

"We'll let you read it when you're up to it, Harry," Ginny said brightly. "We actually found a word that rhymes with sodding ba-"

"Ginevra Molly Weasley!"

Ginny smiled tentatively. "Sorry, Mum. It was all in fun."

"This family does NOT need another reason to be at odds with each other. NOT when other things like this are happening!"

"I know. I know. We were just-we wouldn't've sent it." Ginny turned from her Mum, took Harry's hand gently and met his eyes. "Get some rest, Harry. I'm very glad you're okay." The light of affection in her eyes was a bit new, but didn't seem out of place. He smiled back and she turned to follow the rest to the door.

"See you, mate. I want to hear everything that happened, all right?" Ron looked at him anxiously as he was herded out by his Mum. "Bye, Harry!"

"Now, Harry," Mum Weasley smiled at him from the door, "you don't have to talk about anything you don't want to. All the mediwitches I've ever known who were any good said that dredging up something painful makes it that much harder to heal. So you keep on being quiet until you find something you need to say. We'll wait." She looked so lovingly at Harry that his throat clogged. He managed to nod slightly and she left.

Harry looked around the empty room, feeling unaccountably drained. With a grimace that gave him an immediate headache, he bent his right arm, feeling the weakness and slight ache intensify as the muscles flexed. Madam Pomfrey usually managed to patch him up, good as new. What was it that Mrs. Weasley had said about Blood Replenishment Potion only once a day? The way he felt, he could definitely use another dose right now.

So many confused thoughts were crowding his mind. How had he gotten to the Weasleys? He had been in Grimmauld Place when he last remembered, yet if Madam Pomfrey had tended him, then he must have been at Hogwarts at some point. That he couldn't remember being at the school at all was a bit distressing. Why hadn't Dumbledore insisted that he stay there? Being at the Weasleys was nice, very nice, but it couldn't be safe for everyone. The frustrated frown gave way to a small grin when he thought of the formidable arguing talents of all the Weasleys combined. Dumbledore must have had to give in. That had to have been the only explanation.

Harry drifted in thought then, unable to hold on to anything coherent. He must have dozed off, because when he awoke, Lupin was standing by the bed.

"Hello, Harry. Molly sent me to make sure you didn't sleep for too long. She's still worried that you might have backlash from the sleeping potion."

Harry shook his head to clear it and fixed puzzled eyes on Remus.

"Yes, they gave you a draught of Dreamless Sleeping potion after Albus left, just to help you recover properly." He pulled up a chair and smiled. "Ron's been sitting here in this chair for most of the time you've been out." He sat and settled his startlingly new robe around him. "Well then, I was wondering if you had any questions that needed answering."

Harry cast around in his mind, still adrift from his nap.

"Have you been wondering how you got here?"

Harry nodded, pleased to grasp onto something.

"It was a bit of a whirlwind. You've been unconscious for two days now." Harry's eyes widened. "Your body needed time to heal. That was why Dumbledore used Procclumency to help you stay asleep. I believe he said that he eventually settled on sending you dreams of his favorite vacation spot. Do you remember them?"

Harry smiled.

"It was one of my more inspired ideas, don't you think? Turns out that the Headmaster has quite an affinity for Procclumency. Now, then, let me give you the short version of what happened." He paused a moment in thought and sighed. "Your disappearance was quite terrifying for everyone, Harry." Remus took a longer, more uncomfortable moment to gather himself. Harry was beginning to wonder if he should hear this or not.

"The first in the chain of events that night was that while Moody kept Draco in hand, George went flying to Arabella's house and Flooed to the Burrow. He roused Arthur, and sent him to speak with Fudge while George himself went to Dumbledore. The results were rather like the way a spark ignites a blaze. In minutes, I was roused, Severus was put into motion and an Order/Auror team was assembled. Everyone wanted to go."

Harry was starting to feel the pressure inside again, and it was increasing by the moment.

"Severus' job was the most dangerous, of course, but he and Dumbledore believed they knew what to expect. Draco had been questioned thoroughly at Arabella's house while the team was being gathered, and he insisted that you would have been taken to Malfoy Manor, even though he had no recollection of the Portkey being made or given to him. By the way, they've tried breaking the Memory Charm that was apparently put on him, but so far it hasn't worked. Lucius is nothing if not thorough," Remus said with a slight, bitter smile.

Despite himself, Harry shuddered. The tight fist in his stomach clenched harder.

Lupin winced. "Forgive me, Harry. Perhaps this is not a good time and Molly was right to be concerned." Harry shook his head vehemently. "Are you certain? I had hoped that it would give you rest to know how everyone worked in your behalf." Harry nodded and entreated him mutely.

When Remus finally spoke again, his voice was soft and controlled. "I suppose you remember that Snape did some quick Apparating and found you twenty minutes later. He managed to give you the potion and your wand, which was the most we had hoped for without compromising his identity as a spy. Then he Apparated back to report on you before going before Voldemort. Since he had not been summoned, the experience was rather painful for him. But he survived and went back to the manor with Voldemort.

"His report on your condition had everyone concerned, and the plan of attack was quickly formulated. Malfoy Manor has anti-Apparation wards that can be erected in emergencies and that hampered our quick arrival. We were forced to Apparate to a small forest almost ten miles away before we could mount our brooms for the attack. Unfortunately, we did not arrive until after your brilliant escape.

"By the time Severus made it back, you had out-dueled Lucius, Disillusioned yourself and escaped to the hallway on a stolen broom. Severus maintains that he helped rescue you twice more by covering up the blood that had dripped to the floor while you were resting in the rafters, and then again by breaking open the window for you when you were headed directly for it."

Harry heard all of this with amazement, as he tried to re-fit the events together in his memory. A stifling weariness made it difficult.

"Of course, by the time you escaped the manor, we were nearly there. Severus gave us the all-clear signal by blasting out the front door, so we stayed back and spread out to look for you. Some team members, most notably Mad-Eye Moody and Nymphadora Tonks, took a few shots at the Death Eaters who had ventured out on brooms to follow you, to keep them from catching up, but no serious damage was done. Dumbledore had George and Fred sneak up the door, Disillusioned, of course, and they found that you had left on broom. Their Extendable Ears were hardly needed, since Severus and Lucius were apparently arguing quite loudly about it."

"The team began returning home after several unsuccessful hours of searching for you. Molly Floo'd to Grimmauld Place only to discover you on the couch and Ron and Ginny desperately trying to get through to Dumbledore. Molly found the Headmaster and he went to Headquarters to collect you himself. From there, you were brought to Hogwarts where you were mostly patched up except that nasty curse on your arm, which only you were able to break. And now, here we are at the Weasleys, where you are safe and sound for now." Lupin smiled.

"It has been obvious to all of us, as we've combed through the night's events, that our actions would have been for naught if it were not for your incredible riding on the Nimbus, which, quite frankly, no one can quite understand because of the condition you were in. How on earth did you fly all the way back here, as injured as you were?"

Harry had no answer. He shook his head slowly. The flight seemed more like a nightmare than something he had actually lived through. All he remembered was the cold, the moon and the surprise of finding himself so near to London. Between the suburbs and Grimmauld Place, things became even hazier.

"Well, it was nothing short of a wonder. I honestly think your father and . . . Sirius would have been extremely proud of you." Remus smiled, and then added, "But only after they dismantled Lucius Malfoy piece by piece, of course. I've been contemplating that myself, if things fall out the way Dumbledore thinks they might."

Harry pondered that a moment. Lucius would probably get away with what he had done. After all, no one but Death Eaters had seen Harry at Malfoy Manor, and none of them would incriminate Lucius. Snape could hardly take the stand. And after sending to Lucius to Azkaban once, Fudge wouldn't dare try again. _Coward._

Remus went on, more hesitantly. "We had thought that Madame Pomfrey managed to treat all of your injuries, though the Concidus Curse certainly complicated things. If Severus hadn't overheard a recent conversation between good old Peter and Voldemort, we wouldn't have known what to do. But is there anything she might have missed?"

Harry was momentarily jarred by the mention of Wormtail; Remus' voice had sounded eerily like Sirius' as he had mentioned the traitor. But to Harry, it seemed as if Wormtail had actually helped him this time. He wondered if it was done purposefully or not. Hadn't Dumbledore said something about a life debt that Wormtail owed Harry?

"Was your throat somehow injured, perhaps?"

Harry shook his head again, suddenly realizing why Remus was concerned.

"They found evidence of many Cruciatus curses thrown on you." Harry stared, a trifle disturbed. "And you were obviously assaulted. But were there . . . any other forms of abuse? Anything you might need to tell us about?" Harry stiffened without meaning to, then shook his head vehemently, fighting a sudden, almost panic-ridden, desire to hide.

"I'm saying all of this because I am concerned about you, Harry, and the fact that you're not speaking. Is there anything else that happened?" Remus' eyes held Harry's own with a gentleness that softened his inquiry, but Harry still felt fire course through his veins. For the first time since he woke, he was biting back words. He shook his head firmly, once.

Remus bowed his head, all the tension leaving his body. He knelt bonelessly beside the bed, muttering something Harry didn't understand. "Harry . . . I have failed in my promise to protect you time and again. But I swear," and here he raised an agonized countenance, "I will not fail you again."

Harry's heart clenched painfully, and the words he'd held back melted. Once again mute, he nodded. Remus stood, straightened his robes and smiled down at Harry, familiarly calm and unruffled again. He reached down and laid his hand on Harry's head, not to smooth his hair, as was Harry's first thought, but to hold his palm there a moment, as if in blessing.

Then he stepped back. "You need more rest, I think. Is there anything you want?"

Harry licked at his parched lips.

Remus understood. "Water?"

Harry nodded, suddenly realizing how thirsty he was. The cool water Remus brought was wonderfully wet and soothing. He smiled down as Harry drained it and then backed away again.

"Sleep well, Harry, and dream pleasant dreams."

Harry weakly turned over and pulled his glasses off, suddenly wondering how he had gotten them back from Malfoy Manor. Lupin had already exited and couldn't be asked, so Harry just sat there, staring fuzzily at his glasses before putting them on the bedside table. They were his, he could tell, and he _knew_ that Lucius had taken them at some point. Harry pondered that for a few moments, but gave up as other memories took over. Remus' gentle probing had brought up bad feelings and confused thoughts. The pain had obscured some of his memories from his time at the Manor, but that helpless, horrified feeling was branded into his memory by fire.

Harry shuddered. He simply didn't want to think about it. Nor did he want to talk about it. Not to Remus, and not to Ron. Couldn't anyone understand that?

After becoming unfairly angry at his friends, he forced himself to relax by watching the Quidditch poster beside Ron's bed and putting up the gray screen in his mind. In time, he removed his glasses and closed his eyes, still seeing the shapes flashing by in his mind.


	14. Home is Where the Heart Is

Chapter 14: _Home is Where the Heart is_

Harry slept only a few hours that time. Mrs. Weasley brought him broth for dinner, but he only stirred from bed to go to the loo. That was a long trip, with Ron accompanying him as he had at the Dursleys, obviously ready to scoop him up at a moment's notice. Harry edged away, choosing to lean a hand on the wall for support. When he returned to the bed, he was winded and ready to rest again.

"You all right, mate?" Ron looked pale and uncomfortable himself. "Need some water?"

Harry nodded and lay back down. Ron rattled on about Quidditch, getting him several glasses of water in the meantime, but the silence soon felt oppressive and Ron left with a mumbled excuse.

Harry was annoyed at the desertion, but knew his continued silence unnerved Ron. Before he left, Ron made sure to mention several times that Hermione was set to come on the following night. Harry dreaded it. He wanted to see her, really, but that uncomfortable ache and pressure inside just seemed to intensify when Ron talked about her.

Ginny and the twins came in before bed to play Exploding Snap, but Harry wasn't up to it yet, so they gave him a few laughs by playing "Randy Candy Roulette" instead, a new Weasleys' Wizarding Wheezes party game. They put nine Wheezes into an old hat of Percy's. They didn't make Harry play, but Ginny and the twins each had to reach in, draw one piece and eat every bit of it.

Since there were three rounds, each of the Weasleys ended up eating a cream and poofing into canaries, though only Ginny felt comfortable enough to chirp out a tune and fly around as though it was her Animagus form. The twins drew Pufferbelly Peppermints which made them swell until buttons popped off their shirts. Harry was grateful-in a laughing, rolling kind of way-that Ginny kept her shirt intact and only faded to pale when she ate her next candy, a Ghostly Graying Gelly, which left her hair flaming red while her eyes and skin lost every bit of color.

George got a Puckerpuss Pastiche, which kept his mouth locked in a pucker for half an hour. Fred made fun of him until he pulled out a Habanero Hellraiser, which made his nose and eyes run for even longer.

Unfortunately, Ginny's last candy was a Stiffer Salon Sucker, which made her hair stand straight up. With the cut of her hair, the shape of it was like a teardrop.

The twins roared with laughter.

"It's the Little Match Girl," George said through his pursed lips.

"And she's been struck!" Fred finished, wiping his streaming eyes.

Harry couldn't stop himself from joining in. Since her face and arms were still so pale, her shirt white, and her hair standing up and still so very red, she did look like a flaming matchstick. Ginny herself was giggling self-consciously, and Harry thought she was probably blushing because her cheeks had turned a darker, stormy gray.

He was weak from laughter by the time they left, and gratefully smiled them a good night. Lying back on the bed, he suddenly realized how much water he'd drunk. With a weary sigh, he pulled himself up and forced himself to walk down the hall, solo this time. Passing the twins' room, he stopped when he heard a choking, teary sort of sound. Who was in there? He stayed silent, feeling a pull to move onward and give whoever it was privacy, but needing to stay and make sure everything was alright.

"'S alright, Gin," he heard one of the twins murmur. "He'll be fine."

"Would you stop saying that? He's not_fine!_ He's hardly ever been fine and now he's _worse!"_ Her sharp voice was laden with throaty grief. "Why can't they just leave him alone?"

"I don't know, Gin."

"Probably because he's just been in the way too many times," George said soberly, or at least it sounded like something he would say.

"But it's not going to happen again." That was definitely Fred.

"We won't let it," George ended staunchly.

Harry heard Ginny sniffing and imagined her watery smile. "But why isn't he talking?" The twins didn't answer. "You saw him-he isn't even laughing out loud," Ginny hissed. "What's wrong with-"

"Shhhhh!" said both of the twins, startling Harry so much that he jerked forward several steps before stopping again. They couldn't have heard him, and he wanted to hear what they said.

"You're being silly, Gin, he's always laughed like that," said one of them.

"No, he hasn't," she insisted. "He only does that when he's in the room with someone he doesn't know very well. Not all the time. And now he's _completely_ silent! It's just-it's just-something's _wrong!"_

"You're worrying too much. Pomfrey said he was fine, and she ought to know."

"Maybe she's not telling us everything she knows," Ginny said sharply.

There was a pause. "Look, Hermione will be here tomorrow night and then he'll be right as rain. She'll know exactly how to handle him. Now. No more worrying or we'll know Percy was your favorite brother. Let's go downstairs," Fred ordered.

Harry moved on down the hallway quickly until he was out of sight, hearing George address Ginny as they headed for the stairs

"Good thing that Rainblow Reverser worked on you. D'you think we could ever get Harry to try one of the Stiffer Salon Suckers? With that hair, he'd fair look like a hedgehog!"

"Don't you dare." It sounded like Ginny slapped George's arm, but she was laughing. They thudded down the stairs. "And I like his hair."

"Big surprise, that," George mumbled.

"He looks so . . . windblown-" Ginny continued until Fred interrupted her in a rapturous voice.

"And handsome-"

"And so heroic," George added.

"Shut it!"

"That I just want to take him in my arms and-"

_"I said shut it!"_ It sounded like there was a slight scuffle, and then one of the twins burst out while they were running, "All right! All right, just put the wand away, Ginevra. Wouldn't want to do something by accident, right?" And then as they pounded downstairs, the voices went too far away to follow.

When Harry made it back to the room, he was feeling an uncomfortable mix of emotions. It surprised him that Ginny's off-hand comment about his hair made him feel so . . . well, pleased with himself and kind of hot all over. But then, he thought of her crying over him and the good feelings left so quickly that it felt as if someone had dumped cold water over him. He hated worrying everyone.

And then her comment about Pomfrey not telling everything she knew . . .

Harry wondered how likely that was to be true. What could Pomfrey be keeping back?

Of course it came to him immediately, and he saw that he'd really been holding the thought back the whole time. It was the Cruciatus. An extended Cruciatus has many side effects, as the Procclumency book had pointed out. His not speaking could be a simple matter of the connecting pathways in his brain being burnt out. Brain damage.

_Ah._ As his stomach clenched uncomfortably, he realized why he was refusing to think about that-the only way to disprove it would be to speak. A few more disconcerting thoughts flickered through his mind, images of himself mute and helpless for life, before he cut them off again.

He shuddered once before climbing into bed. He put his glasses on the table beside him, wondering vaguely why they had taken Snape's _Occulis_ charm off of him. It had been nice to see well for a few hours.

Harry fell asleep in a melancholy mood that translated into watery, half-frightening dreams. He woke with a start to hear rain beating down on the roof. Ron was now laying on a long pallet beside his, snoring loudly. The sound was jarring, and yet comfortably familiar. He thought of Ginny's words earlier and remembered his reaction to them. It was a while before he could get back to sleep.

The next day started off much better. The Blood Replenishing Potion was doing its work and he felt like walking around a bit. The trip with Ron downstairs, however, was long enough to exhaust him. It was humiliating.

Harry sat down on the couch and tried to smile at his friend, who was extremely skittish, ready to jump and help at a moment's notice. Words came to mind but Harry couldn't utter them. Ron sat at the window seat with a loud thunk and waved off the unspoken thanks. "No problem, mate. So, what do you feel like doing today?"

Harry, of course, shrugged.

"You ought to eat something first, maybe you'll feel better then. D'you think you could fly if we got a broom up under you?" Ron looked so hopeful that Harry had to nod. After all, he'd flown for hours while injured and close to unconsciousness, why couldn't he fly while recovering? Then he remembered something. He made a motion to Ron.

"What is it? You want to write something down? You got more schoolwork?" Harry gestured vigorously at him. _"What?_ You want _me_ to do schoolwork?" Harry sighed loudly. Ron wasn't even close.

"Come on, Ron, you thick-headed git," Ginny huffed, who had apparently been watching from the doorway. "Harry wants to write something down for you to read." She walked with exasperation over to the untidy roll-top desk and grabbed the necessary writing implements. "He doesn't want to play twenty questions just to make you understand what he wants to do."

Harry took the paper and quill gratefully from Ginny.

"Good morning, Harry. How are you feeling?"

He nodded and dipped the quill into the inkwell she had set down on the table beside him. He scratched out the following words:

_I need to eat and then shower before trying to fly, you blooming twit! (that's for Ron) I'm feeling fine, Ginny._

Ginny stifled a giggle as he handed the paper to Ron, who read it and turned pink.

"All right, mate. Take it easy. We'll get you set up. _MUM!"_ Ron roared as he set off for the kitchen.

A more spontaneous smile came to rest on Harry's lips. The Weasleys were all so loud, except for Percy, who was too self-conscious, and Ginny, who was too small to be as clunky as her brothers. Being around the whole family was like being in the middle of a crowd at a Quidditch match-loud, exciting and unpredictable.

_Well, except today._ Today, the Burrow was a bit more like a hospital wing; uncomfortably quiet and all his fault, of course. The other brothers must have been sent outside, or possibly back to work.

Ginny had already moved away to straighten up the desk. Harry watched her silently, noting her small, neat movements and how tiny her hands were. He felt completely disconcerted by the small flush he felt rising on his cheeks and stared down at the parchment she'd gotten him. Focusing his mind with a wrench, he scratched out the first sentence and wrote another one:

_Ever heard of Procclumency, Gin?_

As soon as he stopped scratching, Ginny walked over with a questioning look.

"Is that for me?"

Harry nodded, slanting the parchment so she could read it. She looked at the question with a flush of embarrassment and pulled away slightly.

"I hadn't heard of it until Professor Lupin brought your book, I mean, the one he sent you to study, when he brought all of your things. I've actually flipped through it a few times and it sounds amazing. Why?"

Harry started scratching again.

_I used it against Tom and it worked. He screamed bloody murder. That's how I got away._

Ginny read over his shoulder again and grew pale. She moved back a little and stared at Harry, open-mouthed. Then she smiled. "It worked?"

Harry nodded.

"Did you project a memory?"

Harry nodded again.

"That's _fantastic!_ Write it all down-everything! I know Professor Lupin and Dumbledore and everyone will want to know, too!" She ran to get a fresh sheet of paper and Harry smiled at her excitement. He got right to work writing it all down. Ginny sat for a while, watching him, then got up and ran into the kitchen. Harry heard her excitedly telling Ron and her Mum. Ron obviously didn't understand what she was talking about, because he asked a lot of questions.

At some point, Ginny returned and sat back down. In the thick of writing, Harry forgot about her until she suddenly sighed, "That's it, then."

Harry started and looked up at her, his concentration broken. Ginny was looking off into space, as if seeing another world.

"Now I _know _you'll beat him," she whispered and then glanced at him for a moment. After a small smile, she lay back in the chair and looked off again, waiting for him to finish.

Harry got back to work, wishing he could ask her what in the world she meant by that, wondering how she could have such faith in him after the debacle at the Ministry, and how in the world she had come to the conclusion (rightly and without knowing the Prophecy) that he would be the one to beat Tom, _if_ anyone did.

He scratched out the last few words and handed the parchment to Ginny, who took it breathlessly and with a big grin just as Ron entered.

"Your breakfast is ready, Harry. Mum fixed your favorites." Harry got up, glad to find his legs steadier now, and followed Ron into the kitchen, leaving Ginny pouring over his words.

"Good morning, Harry," Mrs. Weasley beamed at him as he came in. "I'm so glad to see you up and around this morning. Did you sleep well?"

Harry shrugged and sat down, uncomfortably conscious of the fact that he couldn't really answer her.

"Well, there's probably nothing wrong with you that a half-dozen rashers of bacon and a dozen eggs won't cure! You go ahead and start, dear, we've already had ours."

"Speak for yourself, Mum," Ron said, grabbing a plate out of the cupboard and plopping down across from Harry. "Are you going to eat all those eggs, mate?"

Harry shook his head and looked up at Ron's mum, half-expecting her to reprimand Ron. She was eyeing at Harry critically. "Now, Harry, I know I'm not your mum, but you really should consider getting your hair cut, now that you're not stuck in that house-"

"MUM! He's just almost been killed!" Ron protested loudly, splattering eggs from his mouth on the last word. He swallowed quickly. "Who cares what his hair looks like!"

"Well, it's just that Hermione is coming tonight, and he should want to look presentable for her. And that long hair is just so-"

"Here!" Ron blasted out. "Why would Harry need to look presentable for Hermione? She doesn't care how he looks and anyway-"

"Harry! This is _fantastic!" _Ginny interrupted, rushing through the doorway, thrusting the parchment at Ron. "Ron, you have got to read this! Oh, _Harry!"_ She twirled around once in what appeared to be pure joy and grabbed her Mum in a hug. "He beat Tom! He beat Voldemort! Harry did it!"

Harry dropped his fork and started motioning for her to stop. He'd done no such thing. All he'd done is give Tom a few seconds' pain, not do away with him. Hadn't he written it correctly? Ginny noticed him gesturing and frowned at him.

"Yes, I know! _I know!_ You didn't actually kill him or anything. But Harry-you escaped because you did Procclumency and it worked. It really worked!"

Ron was reading now, a frown on his face. Harry hadn't written anything about the torture with Malfoy, just about Disillusioning himself and heading for the rafters, then projecting his memory into Tom's mind.

Mrs. Weasley broke into his thoughts. "So that's what you were chattering on about in here with Ron, Procclumency?"

"Yes, Mum. Harry used his connection to Voldemort to project a memory to him, one that had love in it and good, happy things and it brought Tom to his knees! That's what we needed, just some sort of a chance." She suddenly froze. "What if-what if we all could do it? What if we . . . all learned Procclumency and fought Tom that way?" She walked forward, almost as if in a trance, as if her mind was feeling its way through the thoughts. "What if we were like-like opposite Dementors, like anti-Dementors. Wouldn't that-wouldn't that hurt him? It would- I know it would," she said instantly, answering her own question. "I should know."

Ron had stopped reading. Mrs. Weasley looked startled. Harry felt his mind opening somehow, as if new thoughts were taking form there.

Ginny went on. "Tom wouldn't be able to stand it. He'd run away. He can't stand love."

Silence reigned in the little kitchen. Harry sat, his eggs forgotten, his mind racing. If others could learn Procclumency, then yes, it would help defeat Tom. But then, what about the Prophecy? It had to be Harry who killed him. _Maybe,_ he reasoned out_, the Procclumency from everyone would distract Tom, weaken him, and I could kill him somehow. Yes, maybe so._

"It just might work, Gin," Ron said hoarsely. He put the parchment down. "You could still use help Harry, no matter what that thing said."

Harry leveled a venomous gaze in Ron's direction, willing him to be quiet about the Prophecy. Ron flushed. Ginny stared between them curiously.

"We must tell Dumbledore about this," Mrs. Weasley interjected. "Ron, hand it here." She headed for the fireplace with Harry's written pages, a determined look on her face. "Anything that gives us an edge." Then she turned back. "But not a word to anyone else, you three. Except Hermione. Then no one else."

They all nodded, seriously. She turned back to the fireplace and took a pinch of Floo powder. Tossing it in caused the golden flames to darken to green. "Albus Dumbledore's office!" Then she stepped inside it and was gone.

Ron stared at Harry, a big grin taking over his face. "I can't believe you actually did this, the Procclumency thing! It's like the Patronus all over again! And it really made him scream?"

Harry nodded with a smile, Ron's joy starting to bleed into him.

"Good! Bloody bastard! I wish you could've done the same thing to Lucius Bloody Malfoy!" Ron's expression quickly turned grim and Harry swallowed against the sudden tension in his throat. When was he going to hear the name Lucius Malfoy and not immediately break out in a cold sweat?

"Oh, shut it, Ron! You're ruining everything! We have a chance to beat Voldemort now! This is fantastic! I feel like flying! Don't you, Harry?" Ginny twirled again and leaned down to hug Ron spontaneously.

"Yeah, well, I always feel like flying," Ron said easily. "And eating. Harry, you gonna' eat that bacon right there?" He punched it with his fork and Harry shook his head, settling for the one beside it.

They finished breakfast just as Mrs. Weasley returned, beaming.

"Harry, I haven't seen Dumbledore that excited in a long time. He says he'll be along soon to talk it over with you, but first he wanted to consult his counselors. Now, scurry on up and get clean. I've washed your clothes and left them in Ron's third drawer, along with a few new pair of socks. Yours were getting awfully gray and dingy, you know." She busily cleaned up the table and Harry had to touch her arm to get her to stop.

She paused and looked at him expectantly. He wanted to say thanks, but of course, he couldn't. Instead, he awkwardly put his arms around her. After a small intake of breath, she hugged him back. He squeezed her gently, and it wasn't bad. It was actually rather nice, but he pulled away quickly, feeling even more awkward when he saw the tears in her eyes.

She shooed him away, saying, "Oh, go on with you, you charmer! What am I going to do with you?"

Harry practically ran up the stairs, feeling nervous energy instead of the weak exhaustion he'd gotten accustomed to.

"Come outside when you get done," Ron yelled up after him.

Harry smiled. He definitely intended to.


	15. Soaring, Silence and the Soul

Chapter 15: _Soaring, Silence and the Soul_

Harry felt his way down the stairs carefully. His legs felt like mushy toast. The shower had brightened him up, but used most of his energy. Once he reached the floor, he leaned a hand against the wall, resting.

"Buck up there, mate," a voice admonished him. Harry looked over to see Charlie drinking a large glass of lemonade, sweat running in rivulets down the sides of his freckled face. "Going to join us out there?"

Harry nodded and stood straighter, swaying a bit.

"Looks like you haven't quite gotten your sea legs yet. Think you can hang on to a broom?"

Harry gave him a look.

"All right, all right," Charlie laughed. "The Great Harry Potter is always ready to ride a broomstick. Fancy playing Seeker against me?"

Harry grinned and nodded eagerly.

"Let's head on out, then, shall we?" Harry went with Charlie through the back door, immediately cheered to be out in the bright, warm sunshine. They were headed toward a large magically-extended clearing that had been home to some of the most gruesome Quidditch matches ever played within one family. Harry knew because he had been there for some of them. Over the years, they had gone from apple tossing at low heights to actual scrimmages, thanks to a few magical developments brought home from work by Bill and Charlie. Harry couldn't wait to get out there.

As they walked up the hill, he noticed two people standing a fair distance off, a guy and a girl. Both appeared to be several years older than Harry. The guy was distinctly disheveled in a Californian way, sporting a rich tan and long, sun-bleached hair which, as he waved at Harry cheerfully, vibrated with energy. Something about his rumpled clothes looked very American. The girl was tall and thin and rather awe-struck, a dishwater blonde who eventually managed to nod at Harry. Harry tapped Charlie on the shoulder.

"Yeah? Oh, that's Botswana Beattie—the girl is, I mean—and Juniper Nebbles, spanking-fresh Aurors. They graduated last year, top of the class. She's supposed to be brilliant at Transfiguration. I think Mundungus is also on duty today. He must be around the other side of the house. It's all right," he added as Harry started to look uncomfortable. "We don't always see them, but they're always here. Plus, me and Bill and the twins. And Mum, too. You can't do much better than a passel of Weasleys, eh?"

Harry nodded, still wishing it was someone other than Mundungus, after all that had happened this summer.

"There they are. Looks like Gin is on a tear. _Crikey!"_

Harry pulled his thoughts into the present as the small redhead went blazing by, heading straight for a grove of trees to the south.

"Pull up, Gin!" Charlie hollered.

She was barreling for the trees, ignoring the shouts of all of her brothers. The twins suddenly shot by going almost as fast, and Harry was holding his breath when Ginny finally pulled hard to the right and missed the trees by inches.

Ron whooped loudly and Harry would gladly have joined him. He knew what it felt like to fly that fast and dare danger so recklessly. He loved it.

The twins, surprisingly enough, were the ones who chased Gin down and started lecturing her loudly. Harry and Charlie headed for the brooms.

"Wonder what set her off? Eh—they must have put her at Seeker again," Charlie said, bemused, as he sorted through the brooms in a pile on the ground. He picked up a small, light broom that was at least a decade old. "Here you are, Harry. This is an old Cleansweep 7, and it's probably your best bet. It isn't good for flying straight, tends to lead left a bit, but if you want maneuverability, it's the best we've got. Sorry."

Harry took it from Charlie and nodded with a smile. He didn't care what he flew on; he just wanted to be up there.

"Wish we had your Firebolt for you. I've only gotten to see you on it a few times, you know," Charlie went on wistfully. "I'll never forget you stealin' that egg, and the way that beaut of a dragon went for you. Now _that_ was flying!"

It had been far too long since Harry had been up in the air. With that little swoop in his stomach that was strange and yet so familiar, he lifted off, a huge smile breaking over his face. The wind rushed by as he ascended so steeply and with such speed that cheers broke out all around him.

"Yeah, Harry!" Ron yelled, zipping by going the other way. "Keep going, mate!"

Ginny and the twins screamed something unintelligible at him. He was soaring high above them in the air, and the world was deep and wide below him. For a minute, he enjoyed the view of the Burrow and the surrounding countryside as it went by at a fair clip. He was really too high to engage in a Quidditch match here at the Burrow, though, so he stopped to catch his breath.

Catch his breath? Harry was disgusted to realize that he was breathing hard from the effort, like an old man. He huffed out a quick breath. His lips twitched into a smile. He angled his broom for the ground, imagined a Snitch below, and dove.

It was thrilling insanity. The wind shrieked by; the blurry ground loomed; Weasleys were screaming, yelling, cheering—

And Harry wasn't stopping.

He glared at the ground zooming toward him, and waited for that moment—that one perfect moment—a second away from the point of no-return.

In an instant he was _there—_

jerking up—

angling straight—

zooming around Charlie—who threw a broom at him, laughing—and headed for the trees.

Fierce joy gripped Harry as he arced around and came back to face the field, adrift with Weasleys. The twins were giving each other high fives. Ron was doing a loop de loop. Ginny was clutching her broom and bouncing up and down on its seat like a child.

Harry smirked.

"You're an idiot, you know that, mate?" Bill called down good-naturedly from his broom above Harry. "You and Ron make a perfect couple. So, you want to play some Quidditch or what?"

Harry, still a bit breathless, pointed gamely at the air ahead.

"Alright then, if Charlie will get his rather large caboose on a broomstick—"

"Oi! Better that than being the Shah of Skinny Booties, O Brother of Mine," Charlie shouted as he finally lifted off into the air. "At least I got some padding to handle those dragon saddles with! Occupational advantage, that," he nodded to Harry.

"So," Bill went on. "I'm playing All-Time Beater. There are no Keepers, just you and Ginny at Seeker. The twins are the Chasers on your team, and Charlie and Ron are on Ginny's team. How's that sound?"

Harry nodded; he couldn't wait to get started. The Weasleys had let him play Chaser once or twice, and he was fairly good at it, but since he didn't know all the plays they did, it was the most fun for him to be Seeker. Ginny, of course, was frustrated to no end playing opposite him, and he could see it in the way she flew—in erratic little bursts. She was itching to try Chaser again.

"All right, everyone on the ground." The air rained Weasleys and they lined up more or less in standard Quidditch formation. Bill blew a whistle that appeared around his neck, let go of the Snitch, tossed the Quaffle and then released the Bludgers. The air was suddenly alive and the game was on.

Harry immediately flew in the direction the Snitch had gone, looking for the gleam that was actually a bit more like bronze than pure gold. The Weasleys' set was an old third-hand one that Charlie had traded another dragon tamer for. He said they didn't have much use for it out at the camp.

Ginny was flying lackadaisically, watching Charlie and Ron flip the Quaffle to each other on their way toward the one goal post—a round metal ring Bill had Transfigured out of a tree some years before. He was still proud of that. Since the field was so small, even though it was magically enlarged a bit, they took turns aiming for that one goal.

Harry noticed Ron juggling the Quaffle and George nearly knocked him off his broom as he swooped in to steal it.

"Ron, you idiot!" Ginny leaned far forward on her broom as she yelled at him. "If we lose this game, _you're_ Seeker next time!"

"The Snitch, Gin," Charlie called back to remind her of her task. "I'll keep Ron in line."

Fred and George, now with the Quaffle, swept back out past the imaginary boundary line and turned back in to make a run at the goalpost. By then, Ron and Charlie were in position and Bill was looking ready to knock the Bludger at one of them.

"Hit George, Bill! _C'mon!"_ Ginny needled him loudly. "He was the one who put the fake rudders in Mum's houseshoes! He _deserves_ it!"

Harry had to smile as he scanned the field for the Snitch. It was never quite as difficult to see here because of—

_POP!_

Harry stopped mid-thought and jerked around on his broom. Just yards away, the natural boundary line of the woods stretched out before him—empty. He tried to peer through the thick trees. In the absence of movement, he felt his heart pounding, and the fatigue that was setting in from just this little bit of exercise. Pinpricks of sweat tingled under his arms. That had been the noise of someone Apparating.

Harry swung around again and eyed the two Aurors-in-training over by the edge of the clearing. They had moved closer to watch the game, cheering loudly as Fred barely dodged Bill's Bludger. Harry scoured the grounds for a sign of Mundungus Fletcher, and felt a deeper pang of worry for the Weasleys when the Auror was nowhere to be seen.

He swallowed and looked back toward the still-empty woods. Had that noise been Fletcher taking off, or someone else?

_Caution goes down better than regret._ That's what Hermione would say.

Harry took a deep breath, streaked down the middle of the field and landed.

Ginny called down to him, "Harry, are you all right?"

Down at the goal post, the twins were just about to take a shot, and Charlie was diving about trying to get in their way. Ron had turned to look over his shoulder at Harry, who gestured wildly to him. Immediately, Ron headed his way, putting on a sudden burst of speed.

"What's up, mate?" His face was pink from exertion, hair sticking to his forehead with sweat.

Ginny flew near just as Harry started pointing to his own ear, vehemently wishing he could speak.

"What? Your ear hurts?" Ron was clueless.

"No, you idiot," Ginny said tensely, landing on the other side of Harry. "He heard something. What was it, Harry?"

He pointed to the woods then made a popping sound and opened his hand in a jerking motion.

"You heard a popping sound?"

"Someone Apparating, then," Ron concluded quickly. "Ginny, go tell the Aurors. Game off." He turned to the field. "GAME OFF!"

Harry was stunned by the quick response. At Ron's command, Ginny flew toward the Aurors, and everyone, even Fred and George, stopped playing immediately and headed for the ground.

"What's happened," Bill barked out first, as Charlie landed and started gathering brooms.

"Harry heard someone Apparating over in the woods," Ron answered.

"Let's go. _Inside, everybody!"_ Bill shouted. "C'mon, Harry. Let's get you inside."

Harry wanted to protest, doubting himself now that everyone had complied so quickly, but well—he couldn't.

"Could have just been Dung, you know. He's always popping off," Charlie supplied easily as Harry handed him his broom. "And it's not like there's no one else here."

Bill was watching the woods intently. "Hm," he grunted. "Let's go."

They started the walk back to the house, all the brothers breathing hard, wiping away sweat. No one except Bill looked overly concerned, just disappointed. Harry saw Ginny up ahead, talking animatedly to the Aurors-in-training. They were tense. Botswana already had her wand out.

"It's a fair scorcher," Ron said, using the hem of his t-shirt to wipe his sweaty face. "Hope Mum has more lemonade ready."

"If she does, you get it last, Red," George said, shoving Ron. "You just had to stop the game when you knew we were gonna' score, didn't you?"

Ron groused back and Harry got a sinking feeling in his stomach. He had ruined everyone's afternoon with what was probably a false alarm. He shivered at the thought, oddly cold.

Cold?

Ice cold.

_No._

Time seemed to slow as Harry wheeled about, darting through the brothers, catching glimpses, horrified to see the dark, hooded shapes gliding from the woods—Dementors.

_"No," _he mouthed. Where had they come from?

Someone yelled. The dark shapes were already at the field, maybe fifty yards away, heading straight for them and the Burrow. Harry's wand was out, rage putting the right words on his tongue, but, of course . . . he couldn't speak them.

Harry's jaw went slack. Ice-cold blood flooded his veins. He couldn't conjure his Patronus. He couldn't defend them. At all.

For a long second, he froze; no one moved—terror eclipsed all else.

Then the Weasleys were a blur of motion around Harry. Ron yelled from behind and Harry found himself jerked behind a wall of the brothers. Bill and Charlie faced the Dementors, wands out, shifting nervously. Fred and George were to Harry's left, Ron on his right. And in front of them, a nightmare played on.

Dementors were gliding toward them over the field—fifty, a hundred, two hundred of them—still coming, always more—dampening the light, forcing waves of blank terror and stark cold before them.

"They're being Portkeyed in," Bill said tersely.

"How can you tell?" Charlie yelled in frustration.

"They're appearing out of nowhere and Dementors don't Apparate," Bill bit out, then turned to yell over his shoulder. "Run! There's too many of them. We can defend from the house!"

It was what they should have been doing all along. Fred took up the cry and they all began to move, but it was easier said than done. For Harry, stumbling along slowly, it all seemed like it was happening very far away. The hated voices in his head started. It was all happening too fast . . .

_"Kill the spare."_

_"I would not know, I have never died."_

_"Sirius!"_

Then Lucius Malfoy whispering, saying something Harry couldn't even remember hearing:

_"Have you ever imagined what revenge feels like, Harry? Something like **this?"**_

Harry bent over, fighting nausea. His knees went weak.

_"Expecto Patronum!" _Charlie's voice.

Bill stumbled backwards into Harry, knocking them both down. "Get up! Hurry! _C'mon!"_ Ron helped steady them.

The cold terror abated slightly. Harry looked up to see Charlie's Patronus, an enormous silver dragon, driving the Dementors back up the middle. Dozens of black shapes fled before it, moving back to the woods. But it was like driving back the tide. As the dragon flew on straight, Dementors spread to the outside, flowing around it, reforming the front line. They had been slowed, but not stopped. There were too many of them.

"Everyone retreat! We'll take it from here," the Auror, Juniper, called out as he ran up on the left; Botswana, looking green, moved much more slowly.

"Where's Dung?" Charlie ground out, backing up.

"No idea," Juniper said tersely.

"Well, isn't that bloody _brilliant!" _Charlie spat back. "George—get Bill back to the house. Ron—take Harry. _Move!"_

"C'mon!" Ron pulled at him, but Harry moved slowly, loathe to leave anyone behind. The strain had already taken its toll on the brothers; Bill looked terrible.

"No—not Ginny," Bill moaned. George was urging him to walk.

"Everybody back! Fred, no—GO!" Charlie shoved Fred, who was suddenly beside him, facing the Dementors, wand raised.

"No," Fred replied quietly._ "Expecto Patronum!"_ To Harry's surprise, a silver fox erupted from Fred's wand and ran at the Dementors that had re-formed on the left. They backed away, the fox nipping and chasing them.

"Well, done," Charlie said in amazement.

"_So_ totally cool," breathed Juniper, who hadn't tried a spell yet that Harry could see.

"Oh, well done, Fred!" George turned back to yell agreement, then fixed Bill, who was draped over his shoulder, with a fierce look. "Now, Bill—Ginny's _fine!_ She's back at the house! Let's goThey finally started making progress.

Charlie's dragon had wheeled about to join Fred's fox. The Dementors, confused by the attack of two Patroni, were separated and forced to wheel back. The fox and the dragon chased them, in the air and on the ground, a formidable team. Back into the woods they drove them.

A cheer went up from the Weasleys and the Aurors, but in the next second, another group of Dementors had broken from the trees.

"Bugger! They're _still_ Portkeying in," Charlie said unnecessarily. And moving fast. The advancing line had surged ahead to a point that was already nearing the edge of the field. Fred yelled to redirect his Patronus, while Charlie threw his arm frantically out to point. "Get to the bloody house NOW!"

Juniper sent a curse of hissing white into the line of Dementors, but Harry didn't see its effect, as he was jerked bodily off his feet by the heaving pull Ron gave him. After only a few more backward steps, the cold was debilitating and the day grew dark. A white fog started rolling in front of Harry's eyes.

"No," moaned Ron and his grip tightened on Harry's arm. Harry couldn't even see him anymore. There were so many voices calling now, some from far away and some of them only in his mind.

_"Sirius!"_

"Harry!"

_"He's gone, Harry."_

_"Crucio!"_

"Harry!"

Cold despair was filling Harry. He groped outwards helplessly. He'd somehow lost Ron.

_"Have you ever imagined what revenge feels like, Harry?"_

_"Ginny—NO!"_

_"HARRY!"_ A small body banged into him from the side, knocking him off-balance. "You're going the wrong way! Come _ON!_ This way! Harry! Ron, _please!"_ It was Ginny, in a flash of red that pierced the fog—yelling, jerking away to touch as many of her brothers as she could reach, begging them all to move faster. Harry could barely keep her in sight beyond the mist.

"Ginny?" Ron gasped out from their right.

"Ron—move or I'll hex you good!" She yelled. "Please Harry, come _ON!"_

"Ginny, get back to the—oh, bloody _hell_, as long as you're here, tell Bill you're fine," gasped George, straining under Bill's weight and taking another moment to yell at him, "She's fine, I tell you!"

"Bill, I'm—I'm—" Ginny was struggling now, white-faced. Harry saw that the Dementors were getting to her, and pulled her behind him where she grasped on to his shirt. He desperately wanted to get Ginny back to safety, but he could not leave her brothers. This was his fight.

"Uh, guys," came Juniper's voice from the side. "This is _so_ not working." Harry looked up with foggy eyes to see the first of the line of Dementors thirty yards and closing. Fred and Charlie were backing up now, wands unsteady. Their Patroni were blurs of white surrounded by darkness, much too far away.

"Run!" Fred turned to yell, and Harry turned to shove at Ginny, who had frozen behind him. He looked back. Dementors at twenty-five yards. Harry gasped as Charlie fell to his knees. A chorus of cries broke out from behind them. Was his dragon Patronus gone? Juniper stepped up beside Charlie, his wand wavering, once again casting the spell of whirling white that seemed to have little effect on Dementors. He cursed loudly and started backing up.

_"Fred!"_ George yelled.

Fred, the lone figurehead of the crumbling Weasley defense, was staggering now. His fox was trying to reach the front of the dark shapes surging before it, but it was paler now, and not nearly as effective without the dragon. Dementors were closing in at twenty yards.

Ginny clutched at Harry. "Harry, you have to—to—"

He grimaced, wanting to help her, to do anything to help, but he was losing the battle in his mind. Without being able to summon his Patronus, he was helpless. Despair crashed in on him. The Weasleys were going down just as he feared: pawns in the war between himself and Tom.

_"Sirius!"_

_"He's gone, Harry. There's nothing you can do."_

_"Expecto Patronum!"_ Ginny's faint voice came from behind, where she was pressed against him, shaking. If anything came out of her wand, Harry couldn't see it at all. Juniper went down. Then Harry's knees buckled and he and Ginny both fell. Ginny moaned and curled up on the ground. Before the fog completely obscured his vision, Harry looked up over the ground littered with Weasleys and saw the Dementors closing in at fifteen yards.

_No!_ He closed his eyes and tried to stand, but fell. He forced himself to crawl forward, wand still in hand. If he couldn't protect them, he should at least get kissed first.

But the screaming in his mind grew so loud . . . the laughing . . .

His weak limbs failed and he tasted grass.

Then, like a dream, a clear voice rang out, _"Expecto Patronum!"_ A familiar voice, Harry thought as he started to fade. A silvery-gray form dispelled the darkness, driving away the voices in Harry's head. It seemed to be circling them. Harry opened his eyes to see a silvery-gray otter Patronus gliding away into the dark.

"Hermione," Ron gasped out. The front of the Dementors were routed, and the heavy mist left Harry's eyes.

He looked up to see Ron on his knees. Fred was still standing, silent and trembling with effort, directing his fox Patronus alongside Hermione's otter. The Dementors had surged forward in a narrow strip, so the two small Patroni had no problem driving them back. Everyone could breathe easier. But the sheer number of Dementors meant that it would not last.

Charlie was up, trying the spell again, cursing loudly when only a silver mist came out. "Where's the bloody Order?"

"Don't know, but I could use some help here. Botswana's down!" Juniper called as he knelt beside the limp girl, shaking his head as if to clear it. George suddenly ran up beside them, but paused before helping.

"Ron," he called over worriedly, "you all right, mate?" Ron waved a hand faintly as he tried to climb to his feet.

Charlie glanced around. "I've got him," he ground out, moving back to help Ron as George bent to help Botswana. Harry suddenly realized, with gratitude, that George must have gotten Bill to safety and come back.

_"Mobilus Corpus,"_ Hermione shrieked. "Use _Mobilus Corpus!"_

"Hermione! GO GET DUMBLEDORE," Charlie yelled, draping Ron's arm over his shoulders.

"She can't," Ron groaned, putting a pale hand to his face. "That's her otter Patronus out there."

Charlie looked stunned, and shook his head. "Well, _SOMEBODY _GET _DUMBLEDORE!"_

"They're trying," Hermione yelled back, "but he's not—"

"Harry," George interrupted as he started moving Botswana's levitating body toward the house. "Harry, can you get Ginny up?"

"He's mine." Juniper was suddenly there, grabbing Harry under the arms and pulling him to his feet. "Dude, you okay? We gotta move_—_like _now!"_ Harry was disoriented. He'd only made it up to his knees and was still clutching his wand, trying to keep up with everything. He'd seen that the Patroni were holding the Dementors back on the right. But on the left . . .

Juniper steadied him and then went to pick up Ginny. Everyone around Harry was moving backward, stumbling. Things were speeding up again, and he had to focus on staying on his feet. Panic was all around him.

He could hear Hermione yelling at her Patronus. "Oh, come back this way—move faster, you _stupid thing!"_

"Fred, come _ON!"_ George yelled.

"Harry! Ron! _RUN!"_

More voices . . .

"Dude, let's go!" Juniper grabbed at Harry, Ginny folded in his arms. "Move it! It's—ohhhhhhhh _shit!"_

An icy grip squeezed out Harry's breath. He looked up.

Dementors at fifteen yards.

Harry clutched at his head as his mother's screaming began again. Charlie went down, and Ron sank beside him.

"No! Charlie! Ron!" A lot of people were screaming. The white fog again—

_"FRED!"_

"Charlie, get_ up!" _Fred shouted and then turned back. He stood in front of his brothers, wand shaking, yelling insanely at the Dementors only ten yards away from him. "Would you just DIE, you slimy BASTARDS?"

Harry barely heard him; the cold was debilitating. His mother was screaming—

_"Crucio!"_

Beside him, Juniper, with Ginny in his arms, started to crumple. "No," he moaned.

Ginny's hopeless, dull eyes caught Harry's as they went down and he was forcibly reminded of the Concidus curse and Ginny's helpless words, just before he'd repeated the countercurse . . .

_**WAIT—**_

The countercurse.

Harry dropped to his knees. He closed his eyes and focused. Deep inside his wearied mind, he pulled up the gray screen, forcing everything else to fade behind it. He sucked in a deep breath as the words filled the screen:

_Expecto Patronum_.

He couldn't say them out loud. But maybe he wouldn't need to.

Desperately, Harry recalled a day from his first year—the day Gryffindor had won the House Cup and Dumbledore praised his courage in front of the whole school. Harry opened his eyes, pointed his wand, and said the words silently.

_Expecto Patronum._

An enormous silver stag shot out of his wand and galloped toward the Dementors on the left. They cowered and sank beneath the onslaught, beaten back easily by the fierce hooves.

Harry climbed to his feet slowly, adrenaline forcing his mind to clear, and walked forward. Relief filled him as the stag wheeled about and tossed its head at the Dementors, with every movement pressing them back toward the woods and toward Hermione's otter Patronus, still faithfully guarding on the right. Fred's fox was nowhere to be seen.

Step by weary step, Harry passed the others who were coming back to life, noting especially how pale Ron was where he had fallen beside Charlie, and that Fred was on all fours, clutching at the grass. Harry claimed his place at the front of them, wand out, desperately determined, spear-heading the protection as he _should_ have been all along.

There was yelling behind him, as they tried to get the Weasleys to retreat to the house. He heard Juniper urging Charlie up, and Ron calling to him. Harry started backing up, waving at them to go on.

Just then, a Dementor broke free, gliding around to the left. Harry willed the stag to follow it, until three more broke to the right. The otter tried to control them, but the stag wheeled around, too. And this time, a bigger group of them swarmed left. _Dammit._ The stag wheeled back to chase them, but felt the surge of the Dementors in the middle. The otter went right and the surge became more pronounced. The stag shook its head suddenly and turned back for the woods, immediately flattening the bulge.

Harry vibrated with fury as the silver stag herded the Dementors back, joining the otter in pushing them toward the woods, choosing to force away the larger number rather than the fight the few who had escaped. The brilliance of their forms disappeared into the trees, and the hooded figures remaining on the left—ten or twenty of them—doubled their pace, straight toward Harry.

He retreated a few more steps and looked back over his shoulder. Fred and Ron were halfway to the Burrow, moving slowly. George was further on, helping Juniper and carrying Ginny. Hermione was beyond them, guarding and guiding her Patronus.

Farther past was the Burrow, and Harry gave it one last glance, watching Molly come and draw a weakened Charlie inside to join the others. Then he turned back and widened his stance, wand outstretched. A fleeting feeling of rightness fed his resolve. They had always welcomed him with open arms, despite the danger. It was his turn to protect them. He would stand his ground.

The black forms were gliding closer and almost immediately, the relentless scream of voices broke through the screen in his mind. Everything went dark. The Dementors were closing in.

_Come back_, he pled with his Patronus. _Come back!_

Hermione was screaming—screaming—and other voices, too—

"Harry!"

_"Not Harry!"_

Screams and yells and whispers and laughter all melted, running together in his mind. Dark shapes crowded in and he fell back, barely breathing. . . so cold . . .

_"Have you ever imagined . . . something like **this?"**_

_Lucius._

_"Crucio!"_

Despair filled Harry. He'd lost again. No one was coming to help him. He should have re-cast his Patronus. He should have—

Bony hands gripped his arms. The smell of putrid flesh invaded his nostrils as his head and shoulders left the ground. He turned his face away, as far away from the awful stink as he could. But the Dementor held him, forcing a bony arm underneath his back and arching him closer, nestling him against its rough, black cloak.

Another wasted hand grabbed at his leg, pinching, grasping. Then another. Harry kicked weakly. More hands grabbed and pulled. The Dementor who held him in his arms tightened his grip. They could all feel him, and they all wanted to feed.

_"Harry!"_

Ron?

Screams were his only answer. His mother's . . . and others . . .

Harry could no longer fight. As he collapsed, awaiting death, time slowed down inexorably. His heart thudded in his ears . . .

. . . slowly . . .

. . . and he couldn't think . . .

. . . could think of nothing . . .

. . . but his last, desperate wish to . . .

. . .die.

The desire shocked him, rearing up so strongly that it stole away his breath, and his mind raced to understand. But at length, he understood. Cedric's death had birthed it; Voldemort's brief possession had forced it upon him and Sirius's death had made it desirable. The torture had only made it stronger. And the Concidus curse had brought it tantalizingly close.

Harry remembered vividly being on the bed, bleeding to death. His very soul had been weary of pain and humiliation, reaching for those who had already gone before, aching to die, somehow already bonded to the thought of leaving it all behind.

People had been begging him to say the countercurse, yet Harry knew that if he spoke it, something would be ripped loose from him—something that had found peace, something that wanted to stay hidden and alone and private—something desperately close to sliding past the veil.

So he had not spoken the words aloud.

And he had not spoken since.

Now he understood his silence, and time rebounded and it was all moving too fast. Did he even have a choice?

The Dementor was positioning itself to feed, cradling his head, tucking it gently into the crook of its bony arm, so that Harry had no choice but to look it full it the face. He blanched, sucked in a breath and tried to take in the horror there in the eyeless face of horrid putrescence. The mouth hole was open, lowering scabbed, wasted flesh toward his lips.

Harry arched away in sudden, desperate disgust, but the arms gripped him like pincers of iron. His hands scrabbled at the ground beneath him helplessly. His mother's scream would be the last thing he ever heard.

Then a hand—a wonderfully whole, familiar hand—clutched at his right where it clawed the ground, and squeezed. Harry couldn't see beyond the black figure holding him, couldn't help Ron in the least, and listened to his gasped words with further despair.

_"Harry ._ . . _I'm sorry, mate._ _I couldn't—I can't—"_

The mouth hole was hovering over Harry's lips; bony hands all over his body held him still. Harry had reached the point of no return—the point he had been easing toward for weeks—and now all he wanted to do was _go_ _back_—go back and help Ron, and—

Then it touched his lips and the world was ripped away. Blinding light filled his vision as he dropped to the ground, cold beyond bearing. As he continued to fade, the light above him changed. At first it was only stars; then the stars moved and glittered so brightly that he had to close his eyes.

It was only then, against the darkness in his own mind that he saw the shape they had formed:

_Prongs._


	16. Awakenings

Chapter 16: _Awakenings_

Harry was lying flat against the grass, his senses spinning. Somehow, his eyes were open again, to see the burning stag above him, rearing and kicking out at the clinging night. He wanted to move, but couldn't, and a growing dizziness made it less desirable by the second. It only abated when an intense cold gripped him, growing worse the longer he lied there, unmoving—unmoving and watching.

At some point, he became aware of torturous cries coming from somewhere nearby. He tried to make out who it was, but there were too many voices, all talking, crying. Someone was being soothed; another was being held back; still others were fighting, loudly.

How was he hearing all this? The Dementor had kissed him. Shouldn't he be gone? The cold within was numbing, reaching so far inside that his very soul felt frozen, chained to ground beneath him. In cold like that, how could he possibly still be breathing? Harry focused on his body and was alarmed to feel nothing at all. He was numb. His icy hand must have gone limp in Ron's because the next thing he heard was Ron moving next to him.

"No, mate," Ron whispered, "Not now." His breathing was labored as he drew close, watching Harry stare at his Patronus. "Come on." He grasped Harry's arm, pushed at his shoulder, both shoulders—his hands shaking and restless. "Come on, Harry! It didn't happen. It _didn't!"_ Harry wanted to speak, wanted to reassure him that he wasn't completely gone, but he couldn't. His face was surely just as blank as if he _had_ lost his soul. "Say something, you—"

But he couldn't, and a niggle of doubt burrowed into Harry's mind. Maybe this _was_ what it was like to be kissed—just freezing to death. It wasn't as if anyone had ever done it and lived to tell.

Above him, the stag had grown still, and bowed its head. At first, Harry thought it had bowed to him. But then the words _"Expecto Patronum!"_ rang out once more and a brilliant shape flashed by so quickly that it was impossible to make out.

Ron saw it and screamed after it, "You're too late!" He punched the ground angrily, then fell to weeping.

Someone else was crying, but the rest of the voices had dropped into a hushed silence. A tall, bearded figure in purple went striding by purposefully, with not even a glance toward the ground. Harry silently begged Dumbledore to help him, his vocal chords and lips frozen beyond use.

Prongs stood above him, watching the headmaster, head poised. Then it turned back to Harry and slowly bowed its head once more.

As its face lowered, Harry felt the icy grip on him shudder blissfully. The Patronus radiated heat that grew until the glowing was so bright that Harry had to shut his eyes, and was suddenly able to; but he didn't turn away. To be fair, he couldn't. But even if he could, he wouldn't. He desperately wanted to touch the stag, to pull some of its brilliant life into himself.

Ron had fallen to the side, out of the way, with Harry's hand still grasped in his own again. Harry heard him whispering something, but couldn't listen. The heat was nearing his face, moving closer, now so achingly close. If he could only touch it . . .

Then something pressed to his lips, searing them. He felt himself spasm all over as life was forced back into frozen limbs. A glorious wildfire spread throughout his body until every part of him burned.

Ron's hand felt cold in his now and Harry heard a gasp as it was jerked away.

_"Harry?"_

Light had seeped everywhere inside him, filling up the hidden cracks, exciting every last atom beyond bearing. It was beautiful, but, just—too much. Harry's mind spun out to oblivion on a wave of white-hot heat . . . .

. . . then with a rush, the world returned.

Ron was yelling something. Harry, somewhat startled at being able to open his eyes, saw Ron's face over him, nearly washed freckleless by white radiance. And beyond him, Prongs was standing proudly—blindingly beautiful.

"Harry?" Ron's hands hovered over him shakily, obviously afraid to touch him again. "What did it do to you? Are you all right?" Harry paused, not sure if he could actually speak or not. Ron grew agitated. "Come on! I know you're in there! Say something! Anything!" Ron stopped abruptly, then sat back on his heels, talking to the air with a blank look on his face. "He can't talk. What am I saying?"

Harry swallowed, fiercely determined. He was well back from the point of no return. "I'm fine," he croaked.

Ron's looked down, his eyes wide. "Wha— what did you say?"

"I'm fine. Just a bit . . . winded."

Ron smiled so big that new tears were forced out of his eyes. "You're all right. I can't believe it!" Then his blue eyes clouded and his smile dropped away suddenly. "How is that possible? I mean, _how_ are you all right? I just saw a Dementor give you the Kiss."

Harry paused, listening to the slow, thick beats of his heart. "Dunno. Just am."

Ron grinned again. "I can't believe it! You're all right. _You're all right!_ Come on! Let's tell the others!" Ron scooped Harry into his arms and jumped up with a whoop, the sensation causing Harry's mind to spin into overload again. "Mum's not going to believe it!" Harry clutched at Ron's shirt and screwed his eyes shut.

"Ron, what are you doing?" Hermione asked tearfully.

"He talked! He's all right!" Ron sounded hoarse, but whooped again and spun them around. People were yelling at Ron, and Harry wanted to, but he couldn't, and the dizziness dragged at him horribly until the roar in his ears overtook everything and he couldn't feel anything anymore.

Harry was teetering on the very edge of consciousness, trying to persuade himself to stay awake, even though staying awake meant feeling that horrid pain in his head. He wanted to stop everyone from worrying and crying . . . .

Voices faded in and out. He knew that he was still in Ron's arms, a stiffer and more sober Ron now. They were walking. There were several people right around him and Harry could suddenly hear everything.

"Why are you moving him?"

"He doesn't have a bloody neck injury, Gin," Ron said tensely.

"How do you know that?"

"Because he told me he was fine!"

"That's what he always says," Ginny said with an edge to her voice. "It doesn't mean anything!"

"Did he move?" Hermione put in, the words thick with tears.

"Not exactly."

"Then we don't know _what_ that thing did to him," Hermione snapped.

"Put him down, Ron," Ginny pleaded. "You might hurt him."

"No! I'm taking him inside! _He's all right, I tell you!"_ Ron bellowed, edging his way into the Burrow, and the murmur of voices ahead fell into a hush. Harry was relieved by the sudden quiet. Every movement exacerbated the pain in his head, and every sound sent bolts of yellow and red shooting back and forth in front of his eyes. He could hear Hermione sniffling as she followed, and knew that Ginny must be nearby. He felt terribly guilty about their worrying, but it was honestly all he could do to cling to consciousness.

"You can bloody well stop crying now! He's all right," Ron reiterated loudly as he made his way to the couch and laid Harry down. The couch was soft. Harry lay flat on his back comfortably, relieved to stop moving, watching the colors flash by in his mind as the others talked.

_"'All right?'"_ came a familiar, drawling voice. "I don't think a vegetable can be classified as _'all right.'"_

There were loud, angry cries from around the room amid a flurry of motion signaling Ron's short temper. "He woke up and he talked to me!" Ron finally yelled, furious. Someone must have been holding him back.

"You're living in a dream world, Weasley. He's been Kissed," Draco taunted, his voice laced with bitterness. "He can't wake up and he can't talk."

"Shut up, you coward," Ginny yelled over the other protesting voices. "You were hiding here in the house the entire time Dementors attacked!"

Others agreed in loud voices.

"Yes, of course I was hiding," Draco agreed easily. "No sane Slytherin would have set foot out of the door with Dementors loose."

"Well, even Gryffindors wouldn't have been out there if it was just _you_ the Dementors were after!" Ginny shot back. "We were trying to save Harry!"

"Well, for all your noble intentions, it doesn't look as if you succeeded. I can only imagine the guilt you must feel. Poor, littlest Weasley. Now there's no one to love you, after all."

Ginny gasped as if she'd been slapped. There was a slight scuffling and several cries of "Oi!" as the Weasleys fought among themselves. Then a sharp report rang out, then silence. Draco _had _been slapped.

Ginny growled in a low voice, "Harry should have let the Death Eaters kill you when he had the chance."

"Ginerva Molly Weasley!" Molly sounded scandalized. "Apologize at once!"

Draco spat out something Harry couldn't hear. Someone was pulling Ginny away from him. Harry was struggling to move now, to shout with the others.

"I'm not apologizing to him!" Ginny cried.

"He practically gift-wrapped Harry for his dad!" Ron yelled angrily, and several other voices chimed in agreement.

"That WASN'T MY FAULT!" Draco screamed over the din, completely beside himself. The room went silent. Nothing could be heard but Draco's erratic breathing, which quickly calmed. "Do you realize that it's absolutely impossible to get something across to you people unless it's screamed directly in your faces?"

"Draco, perhaps it would be better if you went . . ." Mrs. Weasley trailed off uncertainly.

"Home?" Draco half-laughed. "I don't have a home, Mrs. Weasley. And I do apologize for being a bother and for telling the truth, as uncomfortable as it may be. But may I remind you that if I hadn't been at your pathetic little Order's Headquarters tonight," Draco's voice grew colder by the second, "cousin Nymphadora would be dead. Ask her yourself."

"He's right," Tonks said in a tight voice. "And I've said 'thank you' nicely, _cousin,_ but that doesn't mean we have to sit here and listen to you all night."

_"Out,_ Draco," Charlie growled.

"Fine. I can see you're still all under the spell of the Boy-Who-Got-Kissed. Let me know when—" His voice was drowned by a deluge of outrage. Movements and scuffles came from so many directions that Harry's head whirled.

"Stop it! Everyone stop it! This is terrible!" Molly Weasley was crying over the chaos. "Someone take Draco upstairs, please."

"I've got him," Charlie said grimly.

"I will _not _be escorted outside like garbage! If you do not let go of me I'll—"

"What? Call Daddy?" That was Fred, in a dark voice. "Try again."

Draco fell silent as they left the room. Everyone seemed to breathe easier and Harry felt the focus turning back to him.

"He hasn't moved, Ron, are you sure he's all right?" Ginny whispered, close by.

"What did you _see,_ Ron?"

"I—I don't know. I couldn't see anything until the Dementors were gone. Then Harry went limp and was sort of—sort of, staring . . . ."

There was a long pause, with a few whispered conversations in the background.

"Where did Dumbledore go? I thought he'd be back by now."

"He's chasing away the Dementors," Ron answered Hermione in a low voice. "Dad and Mad-Eye went to check on him. They'll be back."

"I just can't believe this." One of the twins—probably George.

"But you _said_ Harry talked," Ginny insisted.

"He did," Ron said quietly. "After his Patronus bent down to—to—well, it looked like it kissed him."

"I saw that," Fred interjected. "I thought it was sniffing him!"

"It kissed him?" Hermione said blankly.

"Why would it do that?"

"Well, it is sort of the opposite of a Dementor. Maybe it was trying to heal him? I dunno," Ron offered lamely. "All I know is that he went limp and cold as ice when the Dementor had him, and after his Patronus did . . . whatever it did, he was warm again."

Everyone was staring at him now, and Harry wanted to open his eyes. He couldn't. Footsteps sounded from the stairs.

"So, is Dung still missing, then?" Charlie asked the question quietly after he'd entered.

"Yes, dear," said Mrs. Weasley. "I'm sure he'll turn up, though. Mundungus seems to have at least nine lives."

"Tonks," Ginny said in a dubious voice, "did Draco really save your life?"

"Oh, I'm afraid so," Tonks sighed. "He's been flouncing around Headquarters like some disenchanted Frog Prince for days now, demanding this and demanding that, like we were his bloody servants. But I have to admit, as soon as the Death Eaters came through the door, he was up casting spells while I was still tripping over my own feet."

"Death Eaters attacked Headquarters?"

"Ron, where have you _been?"_

"Oh, George, don't be ridiculous. Ron's been out of his mind about Harry," Hermione said firmly, then turned to Ron. "The attacks were almost simultaneous. The Dementors must have gotten here only a minute or so after the attack on Headquarters. Mrs. Weasley had Flooed off to help just before we started hearing yelling outside."

"Hermione, why _did_ you get here so early?" Ron asked bluntly. "I mean, not that I'm not glad or anything—without your Patronus, we'd have been . . . but, well, weren't you supposed to get here later tonight?"

"Yes, I was," she sighed, sounding as if she'd just sat down. "But Harry's birthday was so terrible for him, and I wanted to cheer him up. So I Flooed your Mum and asked it we could have a party tonight. I got here and started setting up while you were all playing Quidditch. It was going to be perfect. Nobody knew."

At this, Harry grimaced slightly. The movement was enough to encourage him and he tried forcing his eyes open as Hermione continued.

"So there I was, putting up the decorations with your Mum's help, when Dumbledore Flooed us about the attack on Grimmauld Place. Mrs. Weasley left to help and a minute later, Tonks brought Draco back through to keep him out of trouble. She Flooed back and almost immediately, there was yelling outside and—Dementors. Oh, it was just . . . terrible."

"Was anyone hurt in the attack?"

Tonks took up the story. "Several Death Eaters were killed. McNair was one of them. Molly was cut with the Concidus, but she was healed quickly, since we knew the spell, thanks to Harry."

"Poor Mum," Ginny said weakly. Then she gasped. "Harry?"

Finally, Harry had opened his eyes. A chorus of incredulous voices rang out, and there were hugs all around.

Harry was fighting to focus on the figures that appeared immediately beside him. "Harry?" Hermione had sat on the edge of the couch, grabbing at his hand tearfully. Ron stood behind Hermione, hands shoved in his pockets, face working. Ginny knelt beside him.

"I'm here," Harry whispered. "I'm all right." They all looked relieved and happy, but no one said anything at first. "And my back is fine," he directed toward Ginny with a small smile. She flushed.

"Well, it just looked wrong," she muttered. "I mean, the way you were Kissed . . . ." She shook her head.

He looked at the three of them, his emotions in a whirl after hearing all that had happened, but somehow, his thoughts were as clear as a mountain stream. Seldom had he felt such clarity, but the words that finally settled in his mouth left a bitter taste. Harry took a deep breath and looked at Ron. "I should be gone, but I'm not. And as far as I can see, it must be because of the Prophecy, because I'm the only one who can kill him." Next he locked eyes with Hermione. "I'm tired of this. The next time I see Tom will be the last." He heard Ginny take in a long, slow breath. "Are you with me?"

Hermione, her eyes bright, nodded. "Of course I am."

Ron put a hand on her shoulder and swallowed before voicing his answer, "Sure, mate. You know I'm here."

Harry turned his head slightly, risking the dizziness for a clear look at Ginny's face. She knew the least of anybody, and he wasn't exactly sure why he was including her, but knew it felt right. "And you, Gin?"

"I'll be whatever you need me to be, Harry," Ginny whispered, her eyes dark with promise. Harry stared at her a moment, slightly mesmerized. There were footsteps approaching and the happy buzz of voices.

"Everyone out of the way! Pomfrey's here!"

"Look at you, crowding around that boy like he isn't at death's very door for the third time this summer! Get away now," she shooed them in that familiar manner, then stopped to stare at Harry. "Well, now, isn't this a change? Wide awake this time, are we?" Despite himself, his eyes slowly slid shut. "Ah, now that's more like it. Clear out, you Weasleys! And you, too, Miss Granger! The boy needs his rest!"

As everyone called back their goodbyes, Harry took a deep breath and sighed. He was exhausted, though he felt more centered than he had in a long time. He had faced death, and denied its siren call, coming back from the point of no return. He wanted to live.

His thoughts drifted as Pomfrey's wand moved over him silently. In seconds, he was out again.

"Harry, you are awake," came Professor Dumbledore's bright voice as Harry blinked and looked around him. The room was dark, reflecting the night outside. Low voices came from the kitchen, and there was the familiar thumping of footsteps going up and down the stairs. He was still in the den at the Burrow.

"I am," Harry agreed.

"And talking as well, I am very relieved to see," Dumbledore added, his eyes twinkling merrily. "I was beginning to wonder if we would ever find the cat that had your tongue."

Harry smiled, but denied the urge to explain. He didn't think he could.

"Though I missed your heroics, I have been apprised of your tenacity in defending the Weasleys from harm. I must say that I am very grateful to you for saving my dear friends from a dreadful fate." Dumbledore's face was grave.

"It wasn't just me, sir," Harry broke in. "Hermione, Charlie and Fred all helped with their own Patroni. I was stupid enough to forget that I could do the spell without words until the last second. And I still got Kissed, or at least I think I did. I was lucky to survive."

Dumbledore shook his head slightly. "You do an admirable job of being hard on yourself, Harry, but you might want to take a vacation every now and then. Your Patronus was powerful enough to drive away the Dementors until I got there, and powerful enough to restore you to health after coming a hair's breadth away from losing your soul to a Dementor." Harry watched Dumbledore closely, but saw no hesitation on the Wizard's face. "It is indeed you we must thank."

"Did you find Mundungus?"

Dumbledore's face fell. "I'm afraid he was a casualty. His body was found behind the garden, the victim of one of Voldemort's schemes. You see, Mundungus had an unfortunate devotion to the cinnamon buns served at the Knobby Broomstick and often ate there before he went to work. I suspect he met quite a few of his old friends there, to make deals of one sort or another. We never could completely reform him, you know," he confided conspiratorially.

"At any rate, according to the results of Severus' discreet inquiry, a disguised Death Eater slipped Mundungus a slow-acting poison in his cactus milk this morning. Apparently, Mundungus was feeling quite chatty from the poison and, not realizing who he was talking to, he revealed to the Death Eater several things: one, that you weren't speaking, two, that you were expected to be up and around today, and three, that he was the only seasoned Auror on duty today.

"When you went outside and began your game of Quidditch, a Disillusioned Death Eater Apparated away to give the signal. Simultaneously, the attack on Grimmauld Place was begun, and the Dementors were somehow drawn to the Portkeys Voldemort had made out of large tarps. Perhaps he's found a way to communicate with them. Since they all seemed to be determined on getting to you, that would not be an unlikely guess."

Harry felt a cold chill settle in his stomach.

"At any rate, as you were fleeing toward the house, I was gathering Aurors to defend Headquarters and Apparating there. We were well into the battle by the time the Dementors attacked you, and Miss Granger could not get her desperate message through to us. The Death Eaters had blocked the Floo at Grimmauld Place after Tonks came back through, knowing that we would run to your defense. After the battle was over, Tonks tried to return to the Burrow and realized it had been blocked. We arrived here as soon as we could, only to find the defense collapsing and you in the clutches of a Dementor, though your Patronus was charging toward you with a bright vengeance the like of which I have never before encountered. Quite remarkable, even among such a plethora of remarkable events as this."

"Is Mrs. Weasley all right?"

Dumbledore's smile brightened. "Oh, yes and she's just as full of spice and vinegar as usual. Everyone is just fine. Now, there is someone else who wishes to speak with you, if you feel you are ready."

Harry nodded tentatively, feeling that Dumbledore was trying to warn him of something.

"Severus?" Then Harry understood.

Severus Snape swept into the room looking as pale and disdainfully venomous as usual. His robes swirled around him as he came to a stop at the couch, while Harry tried unsuccessfully to sit up. He had to settle for being propped up against the arm of the couch.

"Potter. I must say, you're looking frightfully peaked and close to death, as seems to be your peculiar wont this summer."

Harry stared at him for a moment, stunned that the man could make him so ruffled with one sentence. Then he resigned himself to doing an impossibly difficult task. With as much sincerity as could be managed, he looked up at the Potions master and said, "Thank you for saving my life."

"Which time are you referring to?" Snape asked with an evil gleam in his eye.

"Take your pick," Harry said tersely.

"Severus," Dumbledore intervened with a mild tone. "Harry has hardly been at fault in any of these attacks."

"Of course, Headmaster," Snape agreed in an oily voice. "However, I hope you do not mind if I seek to rid myself of these last-second emergency responsibilities as much as possible." Dumbledore gestured, encouraging him to continue. Snape turned to Harry. "I have prepared, in this flask, a universal antidote which should render any poison harmless, at least any that Death Eaters might try to use. I will be giving these to everyone in the Order shortly." He handed a small flask to Harry with a cord attached. Harry held it lightly in his fingers and carefully worked the cork out. Inside there were crystalline pellets, each about the size of a mustard seed. "If you suspect your food of being contaminated, simply put this on the tip of your tongue and let it dissolve before eating. If you ingest a poison, take one immediately afterward and it will be neutralized." Harry nodded, closed the flask, then tied the cord around his neck and tucked it beneath his shirt.

Snape turned to Dumbledore. "I felt it was a necessary precaution. It is probable that Harry's system is more susceptible to poisons after the incident this summer." Harry looked up sharply at that statement; it was the first time he'd heard that. "And it is also probable that he will, in all likelihood, be the target of several more attempts on his life at Hogwarts. Indeed, I expect it will be quite a feat simply to keep up with all the machinations of the sixth year Slytherin class."

"Don't give up quite so easily," Dumbledore cautioned him. "We have ways of protecting Harry at school that not even you know about. And more to the point, Harry has come up with an idea as to how to make Voldemort vulnerable to an attack."

Snape raised his eyebrows. "Intriguing, on both accounts. What, praytell, is this wonderful idea?"

Harry felt a mischievous smirk play on his lips. "How about a demonstration?"

Snape crossed his arms in front of his chest, and glared and smiled at the same time. "Please."

"Go ahead, Harry," Dumbledore said with a twinkle in his eyes.

Harry pushed himself up further into a sitting position, hoping that he didn't look too pathetic along the way. He pulled out his wand, closed his eyes and erected the gray screen in his mind. This spell had to be particularly strong, strong enough to break through Snape's mind and knock him on the undignified backside of his immaculate robes, to pay him back for all the humiliation—

_No._ Harry jerked in his thoughts. Procclumency was a positive magic that depended upon strong, loving thoughts for its power. Taking a deep, calming breath, Harry focused on love.

But instead of Sirius, the Weasleys came to his mind. Surprised, he nonetheless remembered the many kindnesses of them over the last few days—the jokes, the food, the care and their patience in waiting for him to speak. And then the way the brothers had fought for him, tried to protect him—against Dementors, no less. Ginny had run out there, too, risking her life again for him. Harry's heart ached painfully, but with a good, sweet ache that fed his soul.

His hatred neutralized, Harry turned to his stock memory, the darkness of the day Ginny was taken to the Chamber of Secrets. The events played inside his mind on the gray screen. He heard a loudly expelled huff of breath from Snape indicating his boredom, but ignored it.

When his memory reached its conclusion, when they were all together in Dumbledore's office—all the Weasleys and Dumbledore, Harry raised his wand, opened his eyes and yelled, _"Procclumis!"_

Snape rocked back on his heels as the spell hit him and then stood as if mesmerized. A grimace crossed his features, and then another one. Harry and Dumbledore watched him in amazement as, half a minute later, a strange smile came across his face. Harry was stunned and dropped his wand, but the Headmaster chuckled.

Almost immediately, Snape became aware of himself and snapped his head to look at the Headmaster. "It could not possibly be that amusing." He turned to look at Potter. "Imbecile! Sharing your memories with the Dark Lord will only give him further leverage against you. You cannot fight him with warm, fuzzy feelings!" The last words came out with a hiss.

"No," Harry readily admitted, "but it could force him off his guard, like it did at the—" Harry paused at the quick lurch of his stomach, but he forced himself to finish. "At Malfoy Manor."

Snape's gaze narrowed. "You must control that, Potter. No matter what they did to you. You cannot show weakness or he will eat you alive."

"On the contrary, Severus," Dumbledore injected. "I have often said that Harry's heart is his best and most useful weapon. If he hardens himself too much, it will be unable to save him, unable to save all of us."

Snape scowled. "It is too late for anyone's 'heart' to save the world from the Dark Lord; you must know that! I have told you over and over again: you put too much faith in a mere boy, Headmaster! He is weak. He is not the hero the Wizarding World needs! Just look at him!"

The room was silent. Harry, for his part, was wondering if he was supposed to be insulted. He agreed.

Snape did not seem to notice that he'd crossed a line. "How many times have I saved his life—the Savior of the Wizarding World's life—just this summer? It's outrageous!"

"What is it that you want, Severus?" Dumbledore asked sternly.

"Want? I want for the Wizarding World to save itself! I want the mound of driveling fools who inhabit this world to realize that they have power in their veins, in their very blood. They do not need a boy hero," he sneered. "They do not need _The One._ And, by Merlin's blood, you are_ not the One!"_ He spat these last words at Harry as if they'd been stewing in his mind for the past five years. They probably had.

Harry watched Snape, letting his words ruminate for a moment. The man's venom seemed to drain Harry's anger completely, the opposite of its usual effect, and he had no idea how to reply. It seemed foolish to even try. But then again, who said he wasn't foolish?

Harry took in a long, slow breath. "It is outrageous. And ridiculous. And sort of a nightmare. When I came into the Wizarding World, I knew less than the smallest Wizard toddler about this World, and what it needed to save it. I had no idea of the things I would be asked to do, or if I would at all capable of doing them. Since then, it's just gotten more difficult and more dangerous. But there's no turning back. And if there's one thing I have learned, it's that Tom has got to be stopped.

"It doesn't matter who stops him. It doesn't matter if it's me; I didn't ask to be anybody's anything. But I'll be damned if I'm going to sit by and do _nothing_ while he kills my family and my friends, drags Dumbledore through hell, tortures me, and tries to destroy every good thing the Wizarding World has left." Harry sucked in another breath, suddenly shaking with anger. "If that makes me the One, then okay, I'm the bloody One. But I promise you this: you won't hear _me_ saying it. It'll be them, like it always has been." He blinked away tears.

"And I can promise you one more thing: the next time I meet Tom, it will be the last."

Snape seemed at a loss for words, but quickly recovered. "The Dark Lord has vowed the same, Potter. You would be wise not to put your trust in whatever strength it is that you think you have. I believe Lucius has shown you how weak you can truly be."

Harry heard the name with a pang that took away his breath, and he felt the blood drain from his face, but he did not look away. Snape seemed satisfied, oddly enough, and inclined his head slightly. Then he excused himself and swept out of the room.

Harry slid back down to a lying position and felt himself go limp. He should sit back up, perhaps, and chat with Dumbledore about Procclumency, but just couldn't.

"Take another rest, Harry," Dumbledore said in a low voice. "We'll have plenty of time to talk about the school year. Don't let Severus' words upset you. He does not have the heart you have, and cannot understand the strength that comes from it. It is, perhaps, the great tragedy of his life. Sleep well."

Harry didn't exactly understand the words, but he had experienced Snape's lack of heart many, many times before. He was asleep in seconds.

Harry only rested a few hours that time, and woke to find the house quiet and dark. A light had been left on in the kitchen for him, and it spilled onto the floor with a warm cheerfulness that drew him like a moth. Unfortunately, every single muscle he had was sore and protested any movement vigorously. Was it from Quidditch or the ice-cold touch of the Dementors, or the fiery kiss from Prongs? He had no idea which, but it made moving very, very difficult.

Walking painfully into the kitchen, he saw with an appreciative glance that a bowl of ever-warm soup, a glass of pumpkin juice and what he thought was probably a sandwich wrapped in a napkin had been left out on the table for him. But something else had caught his eye as well. Up on the wall was a banner that Hermione must have been putting up while the Quidditch game was on and no one had bothered to take it down. "Happy Birthday, Harry," it read. A few balloons were tucked away into a corner, bobbing idly.

Harry grimaced. He really _had _had an awful birthday—spending part of it being tortured, part of it flying past endurance, part of it unconscious, and the other part bleeding to death. It was nice of Hermione to think of trying to have another one for him. Of course, this one had been ruined, too, though. Trelawney would have a field day with that.

By the time Harry sat down at the table, his mouth was watering. Breakfast had been hours and hours ago.

There was a note on the table from Mrs. Weasley explaining the food and that everyone had been too exhausted to stay up longer to wait on him. It was extremely apologetic, but Harry didn't mind at all. Eating a nice meal in peace and quiet every now and then was not a burden.

When he was halfway through the meal, he heard a thud and a groan. He stopped with the spoon halfway to his mouth and looked over at the door to the living room, where the noise had come from. Stumbling footsteps were heading toward him, ones that he thought he recognized.

Ron appeared in the doorway, shirtless, mid-yawn, hair sticking out in all directions, stretching his arms up to rest on the doorframe. He eyed Harry blearily.

"You awake, then?"

Harry nodded and ate the spoonful of soup. Ron stared at him, frowned and then ambled over to the table, where he sat with a loud thunk. "You're not doing that silent thing again, are you?"

Harry swallowed another mouthful of soup and smiled, "No. I'm still talking."

Ron eyed him warily. "Had a vision?"

"No."

"Nightmare?"

"No."

"Good," Ron said, yawning again. He laid his head down on his arms and muttered sleepily. "Guess I'm still off-duty, then."

Harry smiled and watched Ron for the two seconds it took for him to fall asleep again. Then Harry finished up his soup and sandwich, drained his pumpkin juice and stood unsteadily, feeling the pull on his muscles again. With a grimace, he headed over to the sink and put in his bowl and glass.

He decided to walk around the dark house a bit to stretch out his muscles, especially his thighs. They ached with every step, and he finally paused to do a few stretches, finding that it eased the pain a bit. Then he found himself leaning against the wall in the darkened living room, feeling the Burrow cocoon him in safety.

Earlier today, despite the wards, this house had almost been destroyed because of his presence here. And only hours later, he'd bound Ron, Ginny and Hermione to him in pledge, to help him with his task. His stomach tightened. It had to be this way; they had to stand with him, but how could he possibly keep them safe?

As Harry's eyes slowly adjusted to the darkness, he began to pick out a faint light seeping down the stairs. Far above, footsteps crept across the floor. Someone was still awake up there.

Harry contemplated the light for a while, cloaked in the darkness and the peace. In three weeks, he would be headed back to Hogwarts. And judging by what Snape said, his sixth year would be even rougher than his fifth.

But then that only made sense. This was war—his war with Tom.

And no matter what happened, there would be no turning back, not until Harry won or until he reached the true point of no return and went on to join the ones he'd already lost.

Either way, on the other side of the bloody battle that was going to be his sixth year, he looked forward to peace and a well-deserved rest. For this year was the one in which Harry Potter would fulfill the Prophecy. And, Snape be damned, this year, he would _prove_ whether or not he was the One.


	17. Epilogue

EPILOGUE

Harry was still standing, contemplating his future when low cursing reached his ears. It was coming from upstairs, from where the light was trickling down the stairs. He followed it slowly, still sore and tired, drawn by curiosity more than good sense. He thought he knew who that was. What was he still doing here?

The light came from a room he'd hardly ever been in before—the Weasleys' junk room and library. The door was pulled to, and light leaked around and under it. Someone was definitely in there, shifting about in a creaky chair. Harry pushed lightly against the door' it opened. Draco Malfoy was lounging in a chair underneath a lamp. His gaze flickered up and then back down at his book. His posture didn't change in the slightest.

Harry didn't like being ignored, especially by a Malfoy who had almost sent him to his death not too long ago. "What are _you_ doing here?"

Draco stared at Harry coolly and then snapped his book shut. "So you're alive. Perhaps the Wizarding World isn't doomed after all." He stood with a sneer, seeming to dislike Harry looking down at him.

So this was Draco without his father. Harry wasn't impressed. Draco looked bitter, extremely thin and disheveled. But his mouth worked fine. He went right in for the kill

"So, Severus told me what my father did to you. He's a master at humiliation, don't you think?"

Harry went cold and felt the blood drain out of his face. Then it suddenly flooded back, bringing hot anger. But he didn't know what to say. He practically choked on the nonexistent words.

Draco watched him without expression. "Death Eaters don't keep secrets very well, you know. They love to gossip. Consider yourself lucky. Things could have been far worse. My father's . . . appetites are legendary." Draco stood and walked over to the window, looking out. "I imagine, the next time you find yourself in Malfoy Manor, you'll find that out in even greater detail."

Harry was clenching and unclenching his fists, trying to work himself past one of the most uncomfortable moments in his life. He felt like he'd been kicked in the groin and he wanted to lash out. But he couldn't allow himself to do that. This year was about control, and Harry wasn't about to fail his first test.

He swallowed several times and finally settled on something to say. "There won't be a next time."

Draco turned back to look at him, seemingly amused. "Now, how many times have I said those exact words to myself?" Harry said nothing, not quite sure what Draco was hinting at. Draco's eyes went cold again and he turned back to the window. "I am not responsible for my father, you know."

There was a pause while Harry digested this. Was Draco disturbed by his father's actions? The way he ran the fingers of one hand lightly over the windowsill betrayed a slight nervousness. Once again, Harry felt an odd sympathy for Draco. "I know. If you were, I would probably kill you where you stand."

Draco froze, then turned to Harry again. "Pardon me, but did Saint Potter just issue a death threat?"

"Yeah. I did. And the funny thing is that I meant it, too. Unlike you."

Of course, he was referring to Draco's words at the end of school last year. The dig just made Draco smile. "Potter. Just because I haven't tried to do you in right here and now doesn't mean I hadn't been planning on doing it at all. Of course, things have changed, and my plans have . . . altered according to my new goals. Strangely enough, my need to have you survive has actually trumped my desire to see you dead and sprawled across the cold, stone floor at Hogwarts. Your little tete-a-tete with the Dementor earlier showed me that." Harry stared at him as he crossed back to the chair, stunned on the one hand by Draco's casual mentioning that he really _had _wanted Harry dead, and on the other hand by his sudden turnaround. "However, while you've been indulging in much-needed beauty sleep, I've been developing five different schemes of exactly how to take you down at Hogwarts this year, all of them extremely painful and unpleasant. I will _not_ be exactly leaving you alone. "

_Git._ "Hogwarts? And exactly how were you planning on paying for that?" Harry cared nothing for money, but he was curious, and knew the question would rankle Draco.

Draco's cheeks tinged pink and his eyes widened. "I am not entirely without benefactors. You would do well to remember that."

"Benefactors who aren't loyal to Lucius?"

Draco issued a tight smile. "Exactly. Benefactors who no longer want to serve the Dark Lord's lapdog. People who want the Dark Lord to lose, but only because it suits their needs. They _know_ I have the power to tip the scales. I'm watching every move you make, and I'll know every move He makes. Don't be surprised if I'm there, cheering you on when you fight Him, but watch your back, because even if you _do_ survive, so will I."

The room was suddenly vibrating with tension, but there was a new flavor to it—anticipation, instead of bitterest hate. If Malfoy wasn't such a petty, whining prat, it might be fun. "Oh, I'll survive. Do your worst. But remember, Hogwarts belongs to Dumbledore, not to you. Watch your _own_ back, Malfoy."

"Oh, I intend to," Draco smiled as if tasting a delicious fruit. "And speaking of tipping the scales a bit, I have two pieces of advice for you, Potter. There's a target on your back, so be careful of the Slytherins this year. And watch out for the littlest Weasel; she's dangerous."

Harry's jaw tightened. "Ginny would never betray me."

"Oh, too true," Draco agreed, giving Harry a scrutinizing look. "But, if my father knows as much about you as I do, and I've made sure that he does, then he'll know she's the best way to get to you."

"What are you talking about?" Harry asked blankly, but a sick feeling was blossoming in his stomach, as if it knew just what Draco was about to say.

"It's funny how much you can learn by watching a person, when your sole purpose is to exploit their weaknesses." He smiled mirthlessly. "It's simple: hurt her and it hurts you even worse. Knowing that you haven't even figured it out yet is a bonus; it makes it that much easier. Tuck her away someplace safe, Potter. She's your greatest liability."

Harry couldn't breathe. He was being suffocated by the mix of pain and horror that had reared up in his chest. If Lucius thought that Ginny was the best way to get to Harry, then he would go after her next. And if Lucius got hold of her . . . the tortures . . .

"Malfoy, what have you done?"

"What have I done?" He seemed irritated by the question. "What have I _done?" _Draco swept up his book and strode over to the door angrily."The same thing I've been doing for years, Potter. You're so damnable easy to manipulate. If you can't figure this one out, then to hell with you. I have very little use for a Savior, anyway." And with that, he stalked out.

Harry watched him, his mind reeling. Disbelief gave way to violent anger so desperate that it made his legs weak. He sat down heavily on the padded arm of the chair. He wasn't back to full strength yet.

_Prat. _

From this vantage point, Harry could see a cot against the wall with rumpled covers. Apparently, this was Draco's bedroom. Made sense that he was here, since Grimmauld Place had been compromised.

Now that he was more calm, Harry forced himself to look at his reaction. _Over the top. **Completely** over the top._ Harry leaned back against the wall and looked across the room without seeing anything. Draco was right. It was the same thing Snape had been saying for years. The greasy git had been right all along. Just having someone suggest that Ginny was in danger made him lose it. He could not let himself be manipulated that way. Not again.

Now that he was calm, Harry mentally went over his list—the one that was supposed to help prevent him from making future mistakes—and amended it.

**1) _Listen to Hermione_**

**2)_ Control temper._**

**3)_ Learn Occlumency and Procclumency. _**

**4) _Train to fight better_**

**5)_ Become an unregistered animagus _**_(if possible)._

**6)_ Learn to fight without a wand._**

****

He also added one to it.

**7) _Protect Ginny _**_(watch her, enlist others to help).  
_

He didn't trust Malfoy, but the git made sense. The list was an intimidating

one. Harry took a few deep breaths and determined in himself to succeed. There was too

much riding on him for him to fail.

_TBC . . . in** Harry Potter and the Year of the One**_


End file.
